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CHILDREN    OF    FANCY 


BY  THE   SAME   AUTHOR 


JACOPO  ROBUSTI,  CALLED  TINTORETTO 

AN    INTRODUCTION   TO   THE  ARCHITEC- 
TURES OF  EUROPEAN  RELIGIONS 

THE  NEED  FOR  ART  IN  LIFE 


CHILDREN 
OF    FANCY 

POEMS  BY  IAN  BERNARD 
STOUGHTON    HOLBORN 


NEW  YORK   :  G.  ARNOLD  SHAW 

1735    GRAND    CENTRAL    TERMINAL 

EDINBURGH:    ANDREW    ELLIOT 

17    PRINCES    STREET.  MCMXV 


Copyright,  October  19x5 


Third  Edition 


L'ENVOI 

npHE  tide  is  now  at  the  ebb  and  I  hear  it  swirling 
among  the  rocks  and  regurgitating  in  ceaseless 
eddyings  through  the  long  weed,  that  waits  with 
slender,  tensile  fingers  to  entangle  and  drag  down 
some  unwary  swimmer.  The  wind  is  blowing  in 
squalls,  suddenly  blackening  the  water  and  lightly 
carrying  off  the  surface  and  blowing  it  to  smoke ; 
while  behind  me  the  grass  and  the  young  corn  change 
in  silvery  patches  with  the  passing  gusts.  But 
amid  it  all  I  see  her  little  face,  that  with  its  great 
mysterious  grey  eyes  still  shines  in  undimmed  beauty 
from  the  past,  and  to  which  these  verses  are  dedicate. 
It  was  once,  and  it  shall  be  again ;  the  tide  will  return 
and  the  wind  will  fall  away.  I  have  not  always 
known,  but  yesterday  I  climbed  the  Hills  of  the 
Mist,  and  shook  the  unyielding  bars  of  the  gates  of 
Death  ;  and  then  I  knew  ; — What  is  one  life  in 
immortality  ? 

But  we  wait  and  fret,  and  with  impossible  words 


vi  L'ENVOI 

and  forms  struggle  to  capture  the  unattainable  from 
a  fate  that  has  stolen  the  past  and  would  withhold  the 
future.  Oh  the  pitiable  futility  of  our  '  striving  and 
straining,*  our  *  desires  and  aspirations'  and  the 
endless  reiterated  yearnings  of  mood  and  spirit,  sound 
and  word,  old  as  the  sea  and  wind ! 

Yet  this  is  art,  this  seeking  to  suggest  and  even 
realise  that  which  we  would  have  to  be,  that  which 
with  indomitable  will  we  would  force  from  fate's 
reluctant  hand,  ultimately  indeed  that  which  should 
rightly  be ;  whether  we  call  it  from  out  the  golden 
past,  build  it  in  the  living  present,  or  pursue  it  in 
some  flying  future ;  whether  we  present  this  hope, 
this  suggestion  of  our  realisation,  in  the  sunshine 
and  calm  of  a  Pheidian  marble  or  in  the  tossing 
passion  of  a  violent  storm. 

It  is  not ;  no,  it  is  not.  But  it  shall  be ;  it  must 
be.  Yes,  if  the  heart  is  infinite, — it  shall, — it  must. 
'  'O  ava<yLV(i>aK(i>v  voeiTw.' 

IAN  B.  STOUGHTON  HOLBORN. 

Isle  of  Foula. 


CONTENTS 

Page 

VISIONS, I 

NARKISSOS, 4 

OUTWARD  BOUND, 7 

LOVE'S  SACRAMENT, 9 

BUTADES, II 

LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR, i8 

WAR 36 

LUSITANIAE  NAUFRAGIUM, 37 

IRREMEABILE  TEMPUS, 39 

LOCH  BOISDALE, 41 

PARTING, 43 

TO-MORROW, 45 

CHILDHOOD, 47 

THE  ISLE  OF  FOULA  (THULE) 49 

^i\tlv  Ttoi'  (^lAraTOJV  Tu  (fiiXraTa,           ....  51 

INDIVIDUALITY, 54 

THE  MAUSSOLLEION-CHARIOTEER,   ....  56 

THE  DAWN, 58 

THE  SEA-QUEEN, 61 

IRRESOLUTION, 67 

THE  HOUR  OF  MEETING, 69 


viii  CONTENTS 

Page 

THE  LITTLE  PRINCESS 72 

FROM  THE  FOUR  AIRTS— 

(1)  EDINBURGH:  LINES  FROM  FAR  NORTH,            .  77 

(2)  THE  NORTH  WIND 81 

(3)  THE  FIRTH  OF  FORTH, 84 

(4)  AULD  REEKIE 87 

SURRENDER, 90 

YOUTH'S  TRAGEDY 92 

SIXTEEN, 102 

MENALKAS, 104 

BEAUTY, Ill 

THE  GUELDER  ROSES 114 

CHRISTINE, 118 

THE  ENCHANTRESS— 

(1)  DESIRE, 122 

(2)  ANNIHILATION 123 

(3)  DOOM 124 

BITTER-SWEET, 125 

THE  SONG 127 

PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 128 

LOVE'S  VISION— 

(1)  SPRING 159 

(2)  AUTUMN, 162 

(3)  IN  TWELVE  MONTHS, 165 

(4)  AFTER 167 


CONTENTS  ix 

Page 

THE  DANCING-CLASS, 170 

ISOLT, 174 

THE  BATHING-POOL, i75 

DYING  HOPE, 179 

THE  MAGIC  ISLE— 

(1)  THE  WANDERING, 185 

(2)  THE  ISLE, 197 

IN  VAIN 215 

DOMNULA  MEA,  ORA  PRO  ME,  .  .  .  .2:7 

THE  CHILD  POET, 221 

EILEEN, 222 

THE  MART 227 

ATALANTA— 

(1)  THE  STATUE, 231 

(2)  BEFORE 232 

(3)  WAITING 237 

(4)  THE  RACE, 239 

(5)  THE  GOAL, 244 

CHILDREN  OF  FANCY 248 

AT  ANCHOR.     By  Marion  C.  Stoughton  Holborn,      .          .  249 

INDEX  OF  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES,        .         .  .253 

The  cover-design  is  by  ttie  autltor. 


'  A  much  discerning  public  holds 
The  singer  generally  sings 
Of  personal  and  private  things 
And  prints  and  sells  his  past  for  gold. 
Whatever  I  may  here  disclaim, 
The  very  clever  folk  I  sing  to 
Will  most  indubitably  cling  to 
Their  pet  delusion  all  the  same. ' 

KIPLING 


VISIONS 

ALL  in  a  fairyland  of  silvern  haze 
•-     Dream-fancies  hover  in  the  quivering  air, 
Some  dim  and  dark  in  close  secluded  ways, 
Some  glowing  warm  amid  the  noontide  blaze, 
But  glamorous  all,  enticing  to  despair. 

Black  cliffs  and  castled  heights  rise  vast  and  sheer, 
And  round  their  base  in  thunder  rolls  the  sea, 

While,  through  the  mist,  strange  phantoms  and 
austere, 

Fantastic,  fill  the  trembling  atmosphere 
With  whispering  words  for  me. 

Or  lovely  maidens,  delicately  white, 

And  boys  fair-wrought,  with  joyous  feet  and 
swift. 
In  one  enchanted  dance  of  shimmering  light. 
Passing  all  splendour  vouched  to  mortal  sight, 

'Mid  golden  vapours  ravishingly  drift. 

A 


2  VISIONS 

And  amaranth  flower  and  deathly  asphodel, 

Lotus  and  lily,  countless  blooms  unnamed, 
Pervade  my  senses  as  some  mystic  spell, 
Where  wild  entrancing  beauties  ever  dwell 
In  purity  white-flamed. 

While,  clad  in  quiet  passion  and  regret, 

I  sit  and  gaze  'neath  overshadowed  brow, 
And  finger  round  my  neck  the  carcanet. 
With  mystic  mirrors  in  each  jewel  set. 
That  flash  the  ancient  glory  even  now. 

In  one  vast  pageant  of  stupendous  things. 

Beyond  all  else,  doth  Hellas  draw  my  soul,- 
The  strains  that  Orpheus  or  Apollo  sings. 
Or  Eros'  fragrant  lips  and  flaming  wings 
And  burning  aureole. 

And  Helen's  self  looks  up  to  me  and  smiles. 

More  beautiful  than  even  Homer  sang, 
Or  Nausikaii's  rippling  laugh  beguiles. 
With  yet  more  v/inning  music  and  soft  wiles 
Than  melodies  of  old  time  ever  rang. 

Dreams,  as  the  artist  drew  them  long  ago, 
They  all  alike  in  gleam  or  gloom  outvie ; 


VISIONS 

With  wonders,  such  as  these  my  visions  know, 
The  poet's  pages  never  yet  did  glow 
Under  the  olden  sky. 

But,  as  I  write,  so  cold  they  grow  and  dead. 
As  hollow  ghosts  of  some  exultant  time ; 
My  halting  fingers  spoil  the  magic  thread, 
And  weave  a  pale  reflection  in  their  stead 
Out  of  those  forms  transcendently  sublime. 

But  ah !     If  such  great  dreamings  come  to  me, 

Who  pen  these  fading  fragments  and  obscure, 
What  blazing  heights  of  sunrise  they  must  see 
Whose  written  words  yet  burn  resplendently 
And  agelessly  endure ! 

EDINBURGH 


3 


NARKISSOS 


NARKISSOS 

THROUGH  the  close  stems  I  made  my  arduous 
way 
Until  I  came  upon  a  limpid  stream, 
And  wandered  by  it  all  the  livelong  day, 
Or  idly  dabbled  in  its  waters'  play. 

And  wove  a  shadowy,  dim,  delicious  dream ; — 
Dryads  and  nymphs  I  fashioned  at  my  will, 
Who  sang  their  lays  to  that  low  rippling  rill. 

When  lo !  beyond  my  dreams,  with  plaintive  cry, 
I  heard  the  fair  nymph.  Echo,  sadly  call : 

'Narkissos,  O  Narkissos!  pass  not  by 

And  leave  me  desolate  alone  to  die ; 

Have  I  not  loved  thee  even  more  than  all  ? 

Narkissos,  O  Narkissos ! never  more 

My  sight  shall  vex  thee,  for  my  life  is  o'er.' 

How  beautiful  she  was  as  there  she  lay 

Upon  the  sward,  beside  the  waters  clear, 
Her  wondrous  hair  spread  wide  in  disarray: 
The  frightened  nymphs  abandoned  their  sweet  play 
And,  on  light  feet,  with  startled  eyes,  drew  near ; 


NARKISSOS  5 

Then,  lest  my  sight  should  break  upon  their  woe, 
I  passed  adown  the  sad  waves'  murmuring  flow. 

At  length  the  streamlet  like  a  pool  became, 

And  dark  the  width  of  waters  wide  increased. 
Echo  still  calling,  fainter,  yet  the  same, 
The  soft  sad  cadence  of  that  lovely  name, 
Until  the  dying  lips  in  silence  ceased; — 
*Narkissos,  O  Narkissos!  grant  me  this. 
To  seal  my  death  for  thee  with  one  last  kiss. 

And  lo  !  beyond  the  smooth  and  swirling  flow, 

I  saw  Narkissos'  self  above  the  tide. 
As  never  mortal  artist  e'er  may  know. 
Who  kneeled  upon  the  rock ;  and,  bending  low, 

Drew  forth  a  lily  stem  toward  the  side. 
Ah,  white  the  water  flower!  but  oh!  it  palled 
By  that  white  form  which  met  mine  eyes  enthralled. 

The  while  I  wondered  rose  a  chilling  air 

On  winds  mist-laden,  as  with  noisome  breath ; 
And  Nemesis  drew  near  him  unaware, 
With  ashen  wings  and  lank  unlovely  hair. 

More  sure  than  fate  and  crueller  than  death ; 
And,  'neath  the  beeches  of  that  woodland  dell, 
She  laid  on  him  her  melancholy  spell. 


6  NARKISSOS 

So,  as  again  toward  the  stream  he  turned 
And  stooped  to  reach  another  lily  bloom, 

From  mirrored  lips  within  the  wave  he  learned 

The  fires  of  love,  and  all  his  spirit  yearned 
To  draw  that  image  from  the  watery  gloom ; 

And,  ever  rising,  back  he  turned  again, 

Torn  by  desire  and  unimagined  pain. 

*  Oh,  beauteous  face,  and  all  too  haunting  eyes. 
That  look  with  saddest  longing  through  mine 
own ; 

Oh,  come  to  me,  if  but  for  once,'  he  cries, 

'  Ere  heart-beats  falter  and  the  spirit  dies. 
And  forth  we  fare  upon  the  waste  unknown : 

Ah,  quenchless  heat  of  unconsuming  fire 

And  yearnings  of  insatiable  desire ! ' 

In  vain : — his  prayers  are  scattered  by  the  breeze 

And  flung  afar  across  the  empty  sky. 
How  might  the  Gods  of  heaven  grant  him  ease 
Whom  self  and  self-delight  alone  could  please, 
Dooming  the  loveliest  of  the  nymphs  to  die? 
And  still  he  loves  and  kneels  there  day  by  day. 
While  slowly  wastes  his  life  to  death  away. 

EDINBURGH 


OUTWARD  BOUND 


OUTWARD    BOUND 

SOME  day  when  all  the  work  is  done,  I  shall  hie 
me  down  to  the  shore 
And   bend   my  sail  in  my  little  white  boat  and 

never  return  any  more; 
Away  and  away  with   a  following  breeze  I  shall 

sail  away  to  the  West 
In  my  little  white  boat  on  a  lazy  tide  to  find  me  a 
lonely  rest. 

And  we  shall  pass  where  the  pale  moon  sets  and 

the  stars  are  awash  in  the  sea, 
A-seeking  the  lone  release  of  my  heart  and  escape 

from  memory ; 
As  I  trim  the  boat  to  carry  lee-helm  and  see  her 

idly  go 
And  watch  the  great  green  oily  swell,  majestically 

slow. 

I  shall  never  return  any  more  to  the  things  that  I 

leave  so  far  behind ; 
They  shall  keep  a  long  look-out  for  me,  when  the 

great  all-knowing  wind 


8  OUTWARD  BOUND 

Whispers   its  welcome   song   in   my  ear;    and   I 

shall  laugh  at  length 
As  I  have  not  laughed  in  the  slow  mean  years,  to 

the  song  of  its  growing  strength. 

Oh,  the  grand  grey  seas  will  bring  me  to  rest  on 

the  wide  uncharted  ways, 
And  I  shall  laugh  and  never  return  to  the  foolish 

round  of  days, — 
The  loves  that  never  my  love  might  reach  and 

the  achings  that  never  were  passed, 
For  I  shall  never  return, — ah  no  ! — when  they  gulf 

me  down  at  the  last. 

EDINBURGH 


LOVE'S  SACRAMENT 


LOVE'S    SACRAMENT 

OOFT  as  the  grey  of  twilight  o'er  the  sea, 
^^     Yet  with  a  light  of  lovelier  mystery  filled, 
Your  dear  grey  eyes  tell  love's  infinity. 

Here  in  the  hush,  when  the  loud  day  is  stilled. 

Come  very  near  and  place  your  little  hands 

Within  mine  own,  and  let  me  draw  thee,  Sweet, 

And  slow, — oh,  slow, — as  love's  self  understands. 
Enfold  thee  close  until  our  warm  lips  meet. 

Then,  as  the  lips  unclose  and  hands  slip  down. 
Our  eyes  together  turn  to  where  he  lies ; 

See, — on  the  white  a  wealth  of  sombre  brown 
Repeats  the  long  dark  lashes  of  his  eyes. 

Eros'  own  mouth,  and  pale  translucent  skin 
Suffused  with  bloom  of  sunset  on  his  cheek ; — 

Here  is  the  mystery  of  the  cherubin, 

Soul  thrills  to  soul,  and  the  wild  heart-beats 
speak. 


10  LOVE'S  SACRAMENT 

Come  very  near  me,  Sweet:  love's  cup  o'erflows, 
The  pent  fire  seethes  above  the  golden  rim, 

An  ecstasy  of  commune  none  else  knows, 

When  God's  own  life  is  breathed  through  us  to 
him. 

Come  nearer  yet.     Ah,  Love,  too  much  is  this, — 
I  lose  myself  in  thee ;  and  at  thy  feet 

Seal  in  one  strained  and  passionate  long  kiss 
Our  perfect  bond,  the  child  has  made  complete. 

NEWPORT,   R.I.,   U.S.A. 


BUTADES  II 


BUTADES 

'  Butades  of  Korinth  is  by  some  supposed  to  have  invented  modelling 
in  clay,  by  using  that  material  to  fill  in  the  outline,  which  his  daughter 
had  traced  of  her  lover's  shadow  on  the  wall.  .  .  .  The  invention  of 
the  bronze  foundry  took  place  about  the  same  time,  bronze  having 
been  previously  worked  by  a  tedious  and  unsatisfactory  procest  of 
hammering  the  plates  into  the  required  shape.' 

WHAT  would  ye  here?     What  have  ye  come 
to  say, 
Ye  children  of  a  far-off  latter  day  ? 
Here  lies  my  dust  beneath  the  fair  wrought  tomb, 
Penned  in  a  scanty  womb. 
And  may,  ere  earth 

Doth  pass  away,  attain  a  second  birth. 
But  this  we  know  not ;  all  is  yet  concealed, 
Nor  can  it  be  revealed. 
And  thus  I  wait 
The  turning  of  the  future  leaves  of  fate. 

What  would  ye  know?     It  is  in  vain  ye  pry 
Into  the  secrets  of  eternity. — 
Whence   have   we    come?    and   whither    in   our 

flight,— 
As  the  dark  closing  night 


12  BUTADES 

Shuts  out  the  view 

From  those  sad  gazers  after  one  they  knew, — 

Shall  each  find  rest? 

'Tis  but  an  idle  quest ; 

Nor  shall  your  learning  nor  your  knowledge  show, 

Nay,  nor  your  wisdom  find 

The  road  we  go, 

Till  fate  remove  the  veil  that^makes  you  blind. 

What  would    ye    have  ?      Is  it  the  sculptured 
stone, — 
The  stele  that  ye  covet  ?     'Tis  your  own. 
Or  would  ye  gain,  ye  toilers  in  the  vast 
Unravelled  history  of  the  long  lost  years, 
One  fact  from  out  the  past 
That  I  may  give, 

Though  dead  and  lying  low,  to  you  that  live  ? 
Swift  disappears 
Our  fame ;  and  I, — who  then 
Courted  the  praises  of  my  fellow-men 
And  paid  in  honour  of  the  gods  I  knew 
My  service  due, 
Though  now  I  know  them  not 
In  the  sad  void  of  Hades'  gloomy  clime, — 
Pale  to  a  shadow  on  the  page  of  time, 
As  also  will  ye  pale  and  be  forgot. 


BUTADES  13 

Once  was  my  heart  lift  up ;  did  I  not  see 

The  door  of  triumph  left  ajar  for  me  ? — 

I  that  had  had  no  ke}'^, 

Wherewith  for  some 

The  door  flies  open, — those  that  thither  come 

In  gold,  or  birth,  or  in  a  wealth  of  friends. 

Blessed  beyond  measure,  and  attain  their  ends. 

The  day  was  done,  my  tools  were  thrown  aside ; 
Had  I  not  tried 
Throughout  the  weary  hours 
To  realise  the  thoughts  beyond  my  powers 
In  the  too  stubborn  bronze?  and  there  I  bent 
My  head  between  my  knees  with  toil  forspent. 
'  Must  I  for  ever  fail 
And  naught  avail. 

Ever  be  Butades,  unknown,  obscure, 
In  golden  visions  rich,  in  all  else  poor. 
Even  my  art's  technique  beyond  my  skill  ? ' 
And  thus  I  sat,  cast  down,  and  mused  until, 
On  looking  up  once  more. 
There  met  my  glance 
A  youthful  face  upon  the  wall  before. 
In  profile  sketched  on  the  smooth  wall's  expanse, 
A  sweet  boy  face  verging  on  manhood's  bloom 
Lighting  the  narrow  room. 


14  BUTADES 

I  knew  the  boy 

In  his  exultant  joy, — 

The  head  thrown  back 

In  expectation  and  those  pleading  lips. 

Somewhat  it  seemed  to  lack, 

Where  the  brow  dips 

Into  the  hollow  of  those  eager  eyes, 

In  what  most  gave  the  living  face 

Its  grace. 

Oft  had  I  watched  the  shadows  gently  play 

Round  those  bright  orbs,  when  the  harsh  daylight 

flies 
In  the  grey  close  of  the  departing  day ; 
While  in  the  gloaming  every  shade  and  light 
Melts  into  one  harmonious  delight. 

How  came  it  here? 
Was  it  not  written  clear 

In  the  thing's  self?     Those  lips  upturned  to  kiss 
Told  their  own  story.     This  I  could  not  miss — 
'Twas  for  my  child  he  yearned  as  he  stood  there, 
And  she  the  unspoken  prayer 
Had  answered  thus, 
By  fixing  it,  half  jesting,  on  the  wall, — 
Love's  summary  of  life  for  all  of  us, — 
Where  the  lamp's  shadow  flung  it ;  that  was  all. 


BUTADES  15 

I  smiled,  why  should  I  not  ?     I  loved  that  face 

Full  fondly  also — ah,  that  I  might  trace 

Those  perfect  lines  and  moulded  forms  again 

In  my  own  art : — an  empty  wish  and  vain ! 

One  moment — stay  ! 

Here  at  my  hand  was  clay. 

Soft  clay,  that  yielded  even  at  a  touch. 

Had  I  not  longed  for  such 

Full  often,  when 

The    bronze    rebelled    against   my   hests,   and 

then 
Heartbroken  I  withdrew  ? 
Here  was  there  scope 
To  fashion  all  I  knew, 
And  every  hope 

At  length  might  reach  fulfilment.     Now  at  last 
Would  failure  find  its  rest  within  the  past. 

Gently  I  creep — 
The  world  all  hushed  in  sleep — 
Through  the  long  night  his  image  I  recall. 
There,  with  the  clay  upon  the  chamber  wall. 
The  finely  modelled  brow 
Is  shading  now 

The  mystery  of  the  subtle  forms  below. 
All  'neath  my  fingers  grow. 


i6  BUTADES 

Which  next  invest 

With  form  the  lips,  half  pouting,  that  suggest 

The  fires  of  love  breathed  through  them,  as  he 

turns 
Toward  her  and  his  surging  passion  burns. 
Then  the  throat, 

Strained  slightly,  as  the  chin  is  lifted  ;  whence, 
In  ravishment  intense. 
There  softly  float 
The   wonder    songs,   that    break    the   contour 

lines 
In  their  wild  passage,  as  the  soul's  voice  calls. 
A  narrow  band  confines 
The  hair,  that  falls 

Massed  in  a  splendour  of  luxuriant  curves, 
That  for  the  delicate  white  shoulder  serves 
As  a  gem's  setting  in  the  circling  gold. 
There  at  the  rising  of  the  sun 
'Twas  done. 

The  world  awoke  once  more,  and  lo,  behold. 
She  found  herself  enriched !     A  new-born  art 
Was  given  her.     Swift  did  the  rumour  dart 
Hither  and  thither,  and  my  fame  was  made, — 
The  fame  that  all  as  swiftly  seemed  to  fade, 
And  none  knew  Butades  beyond  those  twain, — 
Yet  recked  I  not, — love  and  my  art  were  gain. 


BUTADES  17 

Is  it  not  even  so  ? 
Though  all  be  spent, 

And  skill  and  thought  and  hoarded  treasure  go, 
Yet  are  we  still  content 
If,  once  alone 

In  a  life's  journey,  we  have  raised  man's  lot 
And  given  truth  or  justice  or,  more  yet, 
A  beauty  that  he  never  can  forget, 
Though  we  be  quite  forgot 
And  utterly  unknown. 

For  this  we  came,  for  this  we  gave  our  breath. 
And  wait  the  issue  in  the  House  of  Death. 

OXFORD 


i8  LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR 


LOVE'S    LAST    ENDEAVOUR 

TTARK,  the  far-off  murmur  of  pursuing  ! 

■■■■*■     Is  it  some  first  harbinger  of  evil, 

Or  do  ears,  benumbed  by  haunting  terror, 

So  mistake  a  rain-plash  for  a  footfall. 

Wailing  winds  for  cries  of  the  avenger? 

Do  I  hear  them  ?     No,  they  cannot  follow. 

See,  the  pathway  dimly  looms  before  us 

As  the  dark  stems  open  out  and  vanish. 

Closing  as  a  giant  gateway  after, 

While  we  leave  the  forest  for  the  moorland. 

Louder  ring  the  hoofs  and  ever  louder: 

Will  they  hear   us,  will   they  come  and  seize 

thee, — 
Leave  me  desolate,  alone,  forsaken  ? 
Oh,  my  dead  Love,  speak  ;  were 't  but  a  whisper 
I  should  hear  it  far  above  the  clatter 
Of  our  progress  o'er  the  broken  pathway. 
Open  once  those  eyes,  if  but  a  moment. 
One  short  moment  longer  than  a  life-time; 
In  it  let  me  lose  myself  for  ages. 


LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR  19 

Cold  the  wind  blows,  cold  upon  our  faces, 
But  beneath  my  face  the  hot  blood  tingles. 
Only  thine  is  cold  and  cold  for  ever. 
Hist,  a  sound ! — 'Tis  but  the  frightened  roe-deer 
As  we  gallop  strangely  through  the  night-time ; 
Yet  far  faster  they  will  swiftly  follow 
When  they  find  that  thou  hast  fled  and  left  them, 
View  the  lamps  o'erset  and,  through  the  darkness. 
All  the  white  flowers  scattered  in  confusion 
And  the  peaceful  chamber  desecrated. 
I  can  see  them  standing  by  the  coffin, — 
Neil  and  Duncan,  anger  on  their  faces, 
Neil  so  silent,  with  his  thin  lips  quivering, 
Duncan,  passionate  with  oath  and  gesture ; 
While  the  old  man  watching  in  the  shadow 
Mutters  vengeance,  with  unaltered  features. 

Say  but  this  at  least,  that  thou  forgivest : 
I  could  meet  them  then  and  never  falter. 
Meet  them  and  in  that  encounter  perish. 
Die  for  thee, — too  late ; — yet  we  together, 
You  and  I,  might  step  across  that  border 
Where  pursuit  is  vain  and  none  might  stay  us. 
Only  tell  me  this,  thou  wilt  forgive  me ; — 
One  cold  kiss  shall  show  I  am  forgiven ; — 
See,  I  take  it  in  its  icy  sweetness. 


20  LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR 

Never  more  shall  I  renew  the  rapture 
When  that  first  time,  'neath  the  silver  birches, 
In  thine  arms  my  very  being  vanished. 
Now  the  cold  rain  wraps  us  round  completely, 
Hugs  us  tight  within  its  chill  embraces, 
Blotting  out  the  full  moon  up  above  us, 
Blotting  out  the  heaven  so  far  beyond  it, 
Lost  to  me,  and  lost  perchance  for  ever, 
In  a  pained  eternity  of  yearning. 
Crowded  in  my  single  human  life  hour. 
So  she  lays  her  cold  caress  upon  us, 
Shrouds  us  in  a  seething  whirl  of  vapour, 
Sweeps  the  path,  obliterates  the  hoof-track, 
Fights  on  our  side,  shuts  the  way  behind  us. 
Neil  and  Duncan  chase  perhaps  this  moment 
Some  vain  phantom,  or  the  Wolf  of  Badenoch. 
Ha!  how  little  will  they  guess  that  I  dare, 
I,  the  chief  of  one  small  lost  sea-island, 
Thus  to  snatch  their  lily-jewel  from  them. 
Hardly  would  they  deem  myself  a  chieftain, 
Who  have  lost  my  days  among  the  vSouth-lands, 
Where    the    keen    North    air    that    stirs    their 

spirits 
Is  a  rumour  and  a  thing  of  hearsay ; 
And  this  hand,  from  warriors  descended, 
Learned  to  wield  a  chisel  for  a  claymore; 


LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR  21 

And  the  left,  with  targe  become  a  palette, 
Knew  no  crimson  save  a  purchased  pigment. 

But  'twas  there  I  learned  the  charms  and  magic 
They  would  gladly  yield  their  pride  to  fathom, 
Meant  for  thee,  Love,  had  the  ways  been  other. 
There  the  black-robed  sage  of  wizard-learning. 
Living  down  the  dark  canals  of  Venice, 
With  his  row  on  row  of  books  and  phials, 
And  mysterious  spells  and  incantations, 
Taught  me  what  the  wisest  never  knoweth. 
See  these  philtres,  sparkling  blue  and  purple, — 
One  can  stay  all  sickness  and  contagions, 
Even,  for  a  while,  the  days  can  conquer. 
Holding  the  advancing  years  at  distance. 
Snatching  youth  again  for  one  brief  instant ; 
But  the  purple  dealeth  death  in  vapour. 
All  unseen  and  never  to  be  conquered. 

Yet  how  well  I  know  each  massy  boulder, 
Speaking  through  this  murky  omnipresence : 
'  Courage  still,  the  flying  path  grows  shorter.' 
Often  have  they  cheered  me  as  I  speeded, 
Though  what  time  I  little  needed  cheering. 
Thou  before  me :  now,  though  thou  art  with  me, 
'Twere  a  mocking  God  would  offer  comfort: 


22  LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR 

Scorned  the  offer,  rtiet  with  maniac  laughter. 
Five  short  miles  yet  stretch  away  before  us, 
Down  the  hill  and  then  the,wild  sea  greets  us. 
Lifts  us  in  its  mighty  arms  and  bears  us, 
Bids  them  hesitate  who  fain  would  follow: 
But  they  still  may  come  to  intercept  us, 
Heat  my  hell  yet  sevenfold  intenser, 
Grind  to  powder  what 's  already  broken. 

Ah !  but,  Love,  my  own,  'twas  they  who  slew  you, 
You,  who  loved  me  so  with  purest  passion; 
When  they  harshly  dared  to  hold  you  from  me, 
Meting  out  to  thee  their  cruel  measure, 
Even  while  they  knew  the  fatal  issue, — 
Savage  minions  of  their  selfish  purpose. 
Sweet  One,  dost  thou  know  how  swift  I  hastened, 
When  from  o'er  the  sea  thy  message  found  me ; 
Day  and  night  and  night  and  day  unceasing. 
Onward  pressing,  every  nerve  at  tension  ? 
Oh,  to  be  in  time  and  wrest  thee  from  them 
Suddenly,  as  lightning  from  the  darkness. 
So  that  ere  they  knew  it  we  had  vanished ! 
And  the  beauty  of  the  clear  blue  fluid 
Fashioned  by  the  alchemist  of  Venice 
Would  have  healed  thee  with  its  potent  virtue. 
But  it  might  not  be: — and  all  too  late,  Love, 


LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR  23 

All  too  late,  when  all  was  lost  and  over, 
Stood  I  on  the  melancholy  threshold. 
Oh,  the  vacant  void  of  utter  anguish, 
Empty,  blank,  unlimited,  unfathomed. 
With  its  cold,  excruciating  silence, 
Soundless,  windless,  hopeless,  and  eternal! 

Yet  I  could  not  leave  thee  with  thy  slayers ; — 
Dead  or  living  thou  wouldst  be  unhappy: 
Even  from  the  grave  my  heart  would  hear  thee, 
Calling  me  to  come  and  take  thee  from  them. 
So  it  falls  we  ride  this  once  together, 
While  the  blue  mysterious  elixir. 
E'en  o'er  death  not  wholly  unavailing, 
Holds  the  perfect  fragrance  of  thy  beauty 
Fresh  and  fair  a  while,  as  though  thou  sleepedst, 
Lying  softly  with  mine  arms  about  thee 
Till  its  charm  has  run  the  time  appointed. 

See,  the  dawn  is  struggling  up  behind  us, 
Throws  a  sombre  grey  before  us  Westward, 
And  the  sea  grows  momently  distincter; 
Till  the  haven,  where  my  boat  lies  ready, 
Stays  our  way-worn  course ;  and,  in  compassion. 
Doth  the  kindly  deep  receive  my  burden, 
While  at  last  the  dreaded  shore  recedeth. 


24  LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR 

Let  me  wrap  my  cloak  about  thee  tightly, 
Lest  the  sea-spray  chill  thee  with  its  kisses : 
But  thou  feelest  not  those  cold  caresses, 
Though  the  main-sheet  makes  my  right  hand  tingle 
And  my  left  grows  numb  upon  the  tiller. 
Deftly  run  we  from  the  seas  that  follow. 
Hungry  as  our  foes  to  be  upon  us. 
Veering,  so  that  we  receive  them  lightly, 
As  we  would  receive  the  haughty  foemen. 
Who  in  flank  might  vainly  seek  to  take  us; — 
Till  at  last  the  mainland  rises  gleaming 
In  the  fiery  dawning's  incandescence, 
Bathed  in  molten  colour,  half  translucent, 
As  the  sun  peeps  o'er  the  distant  hill-tops. 
And  the  island  peaks  ahead  flush  carmine. 
Sharply  limned  against  a  dense  blue  heaven. 

Safe  we  make  the  shore,  we  two  together. 
And  I  bear  thee,  as  I  long  had  visioned. 
To  my  tower,  perched  high  above  the  billows, 
Where  the  sea-birds  make  the  only  music 
And  the  waters  roar  a  deep  bass  concord. 
But  I  thought  that  we  should  pass  in  laughter. 
Stepping  warily  where  yawns  beneath  us 
Yon  abyss  of  many  countless  fathoms. 
Yet  thou  smilest  not :  Love, — thou  art  silent. 


LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR  25 

Though  I  listen  never  so  intently, 

And,  although  the  slippery  cletts  are  traversed, 

Treadest  not  along  this  mid-air  pathway. 

Anxiously  I  fling  aside  the  casement, 
Scan  the  waters  running  to  the  Northward 
As  the  tide  turns.     But  no  sail  appeareth. 
Still  a  short  reprieve,  alone  together, 
For  the  first  and  last  time  in  my  chamber; — 
In  thy  chamber;  all  that's  mine  is  thine,  Love; — 
And  I  bend  o'er  thine  unclouded  beauty. 
Love,  thou  art  too  fair ;  the  pallid  marble, 
'Mid  the  tools  there  by  the  Northern  window, 
Hardly  boasts  a  paler  hue  than  thou  dost, 
Lying  still  upon  the  oaken  cofl'er. 
In  yon  marble  I  had  thought  to  fix  thee, 
Standing  poised  with  outspread  arms  above  me, 
As  a  spirit  from  a  world  ethereal. 
Leading  me  still  onward  to  the  highest. 
But  thou  never  more  thus  wise  shalt  lead  me; 
Only  I  shall  hear  thee  ever  calling 
From  afar  beyond  my  vision,  upward, 
Where  the  stars,  to  us  so  distant,  glimmer 
Far  below  thee,  as  thou  gazest  downward. 
So  I  slowly  swing  the  marble  over : 
Thou  shalt  rest  beside  me  in  our  chamber 


26  LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR 

On  and  on  for  ever,  as  thou  restest 
Now,  on  this  first  piteous  home-coming. 

Once  again  I  search  the  far  horizon, 
Whence  the  boats  will  grow  from  out  the  East- 
ward ; 
Then  the  splinters  fly  before  my  chisel, 
Till  the  echoes  sound  adown  the  tower 
And  the  sea-birds  circle  round  it  screaming, 
As  they  float  above  the  turning  waters. 
Swift  the  long  hours  pass  and  slow  there  cometh, — 
While  the  splinters  falling,  falling,  falling. 
Grow  yet  smaller,  ever  smaller,  smaller. 
And  my  fevered  hand  its  goal  attaineth, — 
Such  a  form  from  out  the  icy  marble. 
As  no  other  ever  yet  hath  fashioned : 
And  across  the  ocean  surges.  Eastward, 
Still  no  sign  of  boat  or  sail  appeareth. 

Lo,  the  sun  has  reached  his  daily  limit. 
And  no  more  athwart  the  shadowed  corner 
Will  the  cross-lights  strive  in  play  together ! 
Others  may  relinquish  their  endeavour. 
When  the  late  far  Northern  evening  endeth; 
You  and  I,  Love,  still  must  keep  a  night-watch. 
And,  the  while  yon  silver  light  is  swinging 


LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR  27 

From  the  darkened  beam  across  the  ceiling, 
Making  all  the  shadows  softly  tremble, — 
Work  on  yet  through  all  that  lies  before  us. 

Twice  the  hands  have  made  the  dial's  circuit 
Since  thy  blossom  decked  the  reaper's  bosom. 
As  he  stooped  and  singled  out  its  sweetness 
From  the  scythe-sweep's  full  appointed  number. 
Yet  my  task  but  hardly  nears  its  ending; 
Though  I  see  thee  grow  again  before  me, 
All  in  white, — the  emblem  of  the  purest. 
There  thy  hand  lies  listless  where  the  oak  ends, 
And  the  arm  is  stretched  that  bears  thy  tresses. 
While  its  fellow  slips  and  falleth  backward ; 
And  thy  form,  so  lithe  in  girlhood's  beauty, 
Gleameth  light  along  the  dusky  coffer 
In  a  silver  sheen  of  radiant  graces. 
Ah,  so  cunningly  the  philtre  worketh, 
It  would  surely  seem  those  eyes  must  open  ! 
Yet  it  may  not  be :  I  bend  above  thee ; — 
Sleep  thy  sleep,  Love,  sleep  and  never  waken ; 
Let  me  aye  keep  watch  and  ward  beside  thee, 
Praying  that  the  lights  may  never  kindle 
Through  the  casement  there — from  out  the  East- 
ward, 
Where  the  boats  grow  up  amid  the  darkness. 


28  LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR 

So  the  slow  night  waneth,  and  the  morning 
Rises  drear  and  chill: — the  long  lean  fingers 
Of  yon  haggard  shape,  that  spectral  bodeth, 
Drearly  creep  and  clutch  each  crag  and  skerry, — 
One  white  swirl  of  death  and  misty  vapour. 
On  and  on  the  chisel  ringeth  ever. 
Following  each  line  that  sinuous  windeth 
In  a  maze  of  beauty  o'er  thy  figure ; — 
See  the  slender  crested  folds,  close  clinging 
To  the  form  beneath  them,  rising,  falling. 
Now  to  catch  a  light  and  now  to  vanish. 
Fade  and  die  away ;  but  all  revealing 
Some  suggestion  of  the  hidden  beauty, 
While  each  hollow  darkly  lies  mysterious. 

Can  my  skill  approach  that  soft  white  marvel 
Where  the  neck  fades  slow  into  the  shoulder, 
Or  thy  bosom,  e'en  too  subtly  moulded, 
Where  thy  shroud,  a  little  space  receding. 
Shows  thy  maiden  years  so  full  of  promise  ? 
Pheidias  long  ago  wrought  his  perfection. 
True,  to-day  we  can  but  guess  that  beauty 
From  a  broken  torso  by  a  pupil: 
But  those  limbs  and  hands  and  feet  we  dream  of 
Fall  far  short  of  these  I  see  before  me. 
Skopas  even  caged  the  yearning  spirit 


LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR  29 

In  the  marble  visage  of  a  statue, 

So  that  none  might  pass  but  he  should  wonder. 

I  would  fain  enmesh  a  deeper  passion, 

Lingering  in  the  features  that  once  loved  me. 

Can  the  marble  ever  match  the  grandeur 

Of  that  queenly  head  so  lowly  lying, — 

Royal,  as  becomes  a  chieftain's  daughter. 

Yet  with  all  the  tenderness  of  childhood? 

Some  reflection  of  that  wistful  longing 

Plays  about  thine  eyes  the  while  thou  sleepest. 

Here  within  the  stone  it  reappeareth 

Where  the  shadows,  fuller  'neath  the  eyebrow, 

Melt  into  the  half-tones,  then  grow  brighter 

As  the  form  still  gently  curving  upward. 

In  a  delicate  relay  of  changes. 

Seeks  the  light  that,  dazzling  for  a  moment 

In  the  marble's  crystal  iridescence, 

Wanes  and  dies  away  into  the  darkness : 

And  thy  lips  just  part  as  if  to  utter 

Some  love-promise  of  the  heavenly  love-bliss — 

Higher,  nobler  than  our  love  and  wider — 

Yet,  though  tuned  to  sing  the  heavenly  music. 

Made  by  God,  I  think,  for  earthly  kisses. 

Never  yet  was  line  so  full  of  meaning 
As  the  line  that  parts  those  lips  asunder. 


30  LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR 

Bending  like  the  curving  bow  of  Eros, 

Yet  with  thousand  subtle  modulations. 

So  my  spirit  dies  away  in  sighing 

As  the  day  dies  down  into  the  blackness, 

And  the  chill  of  night  benumbs  my  senses 

Till  I  tremble  while  my  doubts  assail  me ; — 

What  if,  lost  in  wonder  at  thy  beauty, 

I  should  hear  the  still,  small  voice  soft  speaking, 

And  High  God  should  look  and  smile  in  pity : — 

'Needest  thou  retain  this  fleshly  image 

When  the  ruling  spirit  hath  departed?' 

And  my  soul  would  answer:  'For  my  weakness 

Grant  me  this.     The  spirit  never  quitteth. 

But  the  traces  of  its  sojourn  linger; 

And  some  things  of  earth  may  point  us  forward ; 

Through  a  brother's  love  we  learn  the  highest, 

Passing  from  the  seen  to  find  the  unseen. 

Yea,  although  we  reach  at  length  the  summit, 

Yet  to  see  the  way  we  came  is  pleasant ; 

While  each  stage,  slow  passed,  when  viewed  in 

order. 
Helps  to  measure  feebly  what  we  cannot — 
Hints  the  infinite  from  out  the  finite.' 

Have  I  slept,  Love  ?     Lo,  the  sun  ariseth 
Once  again  beyond  the  distant  mountains ; 


LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR  31 

But  the  clouds  are  massing  North  and  Eastward 
And  the  leaden  sea  is  rising  grimly, 
Ere  the  wind  itself  appears  that  follows. 
Hence  I  know,  unless  I  see  them  coming 
Even  now,  that  we  are  granted  respite : 
None  can  come  with  wind  and  sea  against  them, 
None  have  ever  crossed  these  treacherous  waters 
With  a  gale  from  out  the  Westward  blowing. 
And  across  the  gloomy  tideway,  Eastward, 
Not  a  sign  of  boat  or  sail  appeareth. 

Thus  the  wild  day  endeth,  and  the  night-time, 
Wilder  yet,  doth  hurl  the  gale  upon  us, 
Lifts  the  sea  and  whirls  the  flying  spindrift, 
Till  the  tower  vibrates  to  its  foundations 
And  the  sleet  is  frozen  in  each  crevice. 
Once    again    night    turns   to    dawn    and    noon- 
tide; 
Yet,  though  evening  and  darkness  follow, 
Still  the  tempest  screams  and  naught  abateth. 

So  the  night  hours  pass  and,  ere  the  dayspring 
Fades  again  into  the  grey  of  even, 
Toiling  yet,  and  clean  forspent  with  toiling, 
I  behold  my  task  of  love  accomplished 
And  my  nerveless  hand  lets  fall  the  chisel. 


32  LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR 

Scarce  my  burning  eyes  now  see  the  waters 
As  once  more  I  reach  the  Eastern  window, 
And,  upon  the  waste  of  waters  Eastward, 
Still  no  sign  of  boat  or  sail  appeareth. 

Thus  the  end  as  all  things  reach  their  ending: 
Shall  we  go,  Love,  you  and  I  together. 
Ere  thy  beauty  fades  away  for  ever. 
As  the  magic  of  the  philtre  dieth 
And  the  spell  that  holds  thee  shall  be  broken? 
Shall  we  go,  we  two,  this  once  together. 
Once,  but  once  again,  your  white  arms  clinging 
Round    my    neck,    as    we    descend    the    stair- 
way, 
Winding  down,  where  glint  the  chequered  light- 
rays 
Through  the  narrow  oillettes  on  thy  features 
Just  to  let  me  kiss  them  once  in  passing? 
Yea,  the  muffled  bell  is  calling,  calling. 
Calling,  and  we  pass  from  out  the  tower. 
Through  the  courtyard  to  the  little  chapel, 
Waiting  to  receive  its  sacred  treasure, 
Where  each  sad  necessity  lies  ready ; 
And  the  pages  stand  in  mutest  wonder, 
Nearly  lost  amid  the  gathering  shadow, 
Ashen-hued  against  their  black  silk  doublets. 


LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR  33 

So  beneath  the  catafalque  we  lay  thee 
Thus  in  state  to  wait  the  last  night  vigil, 
There  amid  the  four  tall  waxen  candles, 
Flickering  as  the  gusts  play  round  about  them. 
While  faint  colours  from  the  dim-lit  windows 
Star  the  gloom  the  lamps  can  not  illumine. 
Fragrantly  the  incense  mounteth  upward 
And  the  mournful  music  moveth  onward, 
Like  the  calm  and  measured  tread  of  sorrow. 
Yet,  anon,  there  breaks  the  clang  of  passion 
In  the  muffled  cry  of  grief  insistent 
From  the  belfry,  tolling,  ever  tolling. 
By  the  bier  we  stand : — the  weary  ending 
Weighs  upon  us  and  the  West  wind  whispers, 
Whispers,  wailing,  as  once  more  it  rises. 
Murmuring  and  growing  loud  and  louder. 
And  our  faces,  wan  and  white  and  wistful, 
Peer  into  the  hollow  of  the  darkness ; 
While  about  our  hearts  the  wind  is  roaring. 
And  the  past  comes  back  from  out  the  distance. 
Heaping  one  great  agony  of  anguish, — 
All  the  joyaunce  of  the  days  departed. 
All  the  glory  of  what  should  have  blossomed. 
All  the  radiance  of  a  rare  perfection 
In  a  beauty  and  a  grace  unequalled. 
All,  in  this  one  moment,  lost  for  ever. 

c 


34  LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR 

Then  they  turn  and  one  by  one  pass  outward, 
Men-at-arms  and  slim,  awestricken  pages ; 
We  are  left  alone  within  the  shadows, — 
So  alone  that  even  God  is  silent. 
Yet  God  made  the  love  that  sealed  the  ending. 
So,  before  I  lay  thee  with  my  kinsmen — 
Edna,  daughter  of  a  hundred  chieftains — 
Here  amid  the  dimly  flickering  candles, 
While  I  tremble,  utterly  heart-broken. 
Take  my  kiss  of  hungry,  hopeless  longing — 
Claiming  you  as  mine  throughout  the  ages. 
Thus  we  enter  on  our  last  night  vigil; 
And  the  stillness  slowly  grows  profounder 
As  the  wind  again  abates  its  moaning ; 
Till  at  dawn  naught  save  a  gentle  lapping 
Breaks  the  vast  immensity  of  silence. 
When  the  watchman  on  the  outer  turret 
Suddenly  uplifts  a  voice  of  warning, 
And  the  cry  resounds  throughout  the  courtyard  : 
That  the  boats  and  sails,  so  long  awaited. 
Grow  up  clearly  now  from  out  the  Eastward. 
So  at  length  has  come  the  fateful  summons. 
Swiftly  will  their  warriors  be  upon  us. 
Far  outnumbering  our  slender  forces, 
Yet  outworn  with  travel,  toil,  and  rowing. 
While  my  men  are  fresh  and  fierce  and  ready. 


LOVE'S  LAST  ENDEAVOUR  35 

Fare  thee  well,  Love,  for  the  conflict  calleth — 
They,  who  slew  thee,  fain  would  slay  me  also ; 
And  thy  wrongs  would  vainly  cry  for  vengeance. 
Fare  thee  well,  and  in  thy  name  I  conquer; 
In  thy  name  I  die,  if  that  the  issue 
Of  the  dark  unknown  that  winds  about  me. 

Oh,  my  dearest,  bitter  is  the  parting ; 
As  I  gaze  again  upon  that  beauty, 
Where  the  loveliest  of  all  souls  had  dwelling 
And  the  mortal  framework  was  transfigured, 
Glowing  with  a  more  than  heavenly  glory. 
Yet  thou  lovedst  me : — how  strange  the  marvel. 
By  thy  love  I  too  am  recreated, 
While  I  bend  the  last  time  o'er  thy  features, 
In  this  sacred  mystical  communion, 
Past  the  grave  and  death  and  mortal  limits. 
As  I  place  my  hands  beneath  thy  tresses, 
Lip  on  lip  in  agony  close  pressing. 
Passionate  and  yet  restrained  and  awful, 
Ere  I  face  the  dim,  uncertain  battle. 
Seal  the  finish  of  our  sad  love's  striving; — 
Kiss  forgiveness.  Sweet,  good-bye  for  ever. 

OXFORD 


36  WAR 


WAR 

SHE  came  to  me  with  garlands  in  her  hand, 
Singing  a  song  of  victory  and  fame, 
Far-woven  with  long  years'  immortal  fame, 
A  queen  of  queens  in  Might's  heroic  land. 

Alluring  eyes  'neath  brows  austerely  grand ; — 
How  could  be  stayed  vain  love's  aspiring  flame  ? 
Yet  toward  me  still  with  pauseless  feet  she  came : 
'My  love  is  his  who  serves  at  my  command.' 

I  lay  with  her,  and  at  her  touch  I  shrank ; 
Unstrung  by  pain,  blood  oozing  from  my  side, 
And  all  my  limbs  were  bruised  upon  the  stones. 

Our  children  were  Despair  and  Want  and  Pride ; — 
While  'neath  the  sedges,  rustling  o'er  the  bank, 
The  rain  drips  through  my  unremembered  bones. 

EDINBURGH 


LUSITANTAE  NAUFRAGIUM  37 


LUSITANIAE    NAUFRAGIUM 

HERE  in  the  dread  fulfilment  of  our  fears, 
Upon  thy  trembling  lips  I  kiss  thee,  Sweet, 
While  in  thy  frightened  eyes  are  gathering  tears, 
As  unrelenting  death  and  horror  meet. 

Go  seek  my  gentle  queen  and  give  to  her 

This  kiss,  and  these  to  my  three  children  fair, 

And  one  for  thee,  my  princess-messenger, 

Whose     childhood's     beauty     softens     death's 
despair. 

The  boat  is  here,  yet,  ere  thy  feet  I  guide, 

I  hold  thee  fast  in  one  last  agony. 
Then  speed  thee  o'er  the  darkening  waters'  tide ; 

Go  bear  my  kisses.  Child,  across  the  sea. 

And  in  the  day  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead, 

When  hearts  most  loved  shall  meet  me  on  the 
shore. 
With  those  most  intimately  sacred  tread 

The  welcoming   marge   where   we    unite    once 
more. 


38  LUSITANIAE  NAUFRAGIUM 

O  thou,  too  young  to  know  of  love  or  death, 
Grant  me  this  tryst  when  Time's  spent  years 
depart, 

Thou  on  whose  lips  her  own  kiss  lingereth 
And  all  my  children's  love  about  thy  heart. 

Through  all  the  griding  wrack  of  crash  and  pain 
Heaven  guide  thee  safely  o'er  the  ocean-swell ; 

Ah  God !  I  dare  not  look  at  thee  again ; 
The  water  rises — I  must  go — farewell ! 

QUEENSTOWN.      MAY  1915 


IRREMEABILE  TEMPUS  39 


IRREMEABILE    TEMPUS 

"VJO  rest,  no  pause,  no  stay, 
■^  ^      The  endless  moments  glide; 
An  every  world  should  cease  to  be 
Time  were  not  satisfied. 

To  each  glad  hour  we  cling 
That  rude  winds  sweep  away, 

Till  echoing  in  the  past  we  hear 
The  wail  of  their  dismay. 

Too  long,  too  short,  too  strange, 
The  bright  child-days  are  fled  ; 

While  glittering  sands  that  once  ran  gold, 
Alas,  run  dust  instead. 

For  childhood,  laughter-strown, 

I  call  and  call  in  vain ; 
My  little  playmate's  winsome  face 

Time  will  not  bring  again. 


40  IRREMEABILE  TEMPUS 

No  hour  may  I  prolong, 

Nor  turn  the  dread  hands  back, 
Yet  can  no  joy  in  future  years 

Bring  what  the  past  years  lack. 

Past,  Present,  and  To-come 
Shape  the  eternal  soul; 

The  stillborn  hope  of  yesterday 
Is  lost  unto  the  whole. 

Give  now  the  vanished  gift. 
From  these  frail  fingers  reft ; 

Yet,  though  it  fill  the  present  full, 
The  empty  past  is  left. 

To-day  spreads  all  her  wares 
Untouched,  despised,  too  late, — 

A  kiss  from  those  child-lips  I  miss, 
And  naught  can  compensate. 


LONDON 


LOCH  BOISDALE  41 


LOCH    BOISDALE 

(Where  Prince  Charlie  bade  farewell  to  the  MacLeods) 

FAR  far  aloft,  dark  in  the  dusky  sky, 
The  topsail  stands  and  all  the  shrouds  grow 
dim. 
Into  night's  interlude  the  day  must  die, 

And  down  the  past  our  thoughts  return  to  him. 

Save  for  the  swirl  of  water  at  her  bow 

And  the  dull  surge  on  the  receding  sh  jre — 

No  sound : — while  one  blue  shadow  even  now 
Hides  Calvay's  ruined  Isle  and  stern  Ben  More. 

So  must  it  then  have  been,  when  hope  was  spent, 
And  all  love's  daring  loyalty  had  failed ; 

And  eyes  were  wet  in  sad  bewilderment 

That  in  the  days  of  death  had  never  quailed. 

With  what  full  heart  his  backward  glances  turned, 
When  the  slow  hesitant  farewells  were  said. 

With   what    full    hearts    they   twain    despairing 
yearned 
After  the  sail  that  through  the  darkness  sped. 


42  LOCH  BOISDALE 

A  hope,  a  dim  ideal,  a  useless  quest, 
A  sacrifice  to  what  might  never  be : 

This  is  to  touch  life's  essence  at  its  best, 

Dying  for  dreams  more  real  than  sight  can  see. 

Hail  to  the  lad  who  can  no  more  return, 
And  fling  away  the  self  and  all  its  gains ; 

Each  sober  calculating  caution  spurn, 

For  once  let  generous  passion  seize  the  reins! 

Ah  Donald !  could  we  grasp  thee  by  the  hand, 
Or,  Murdoch,  see  thee  in  thy  boyhood's  grace. 

Proud,  by  thy  prince,  doom-girt  to  take  thy  stand. 
Love  gleaming  through  the  beauty  of  thy  face ; 

Then  might  we  yet  on  some  romantic  morn 
Bring  back  the  old  world's  chivalry  again, 

And  fight  a  lost  Culloden  more  forlorn, 

Yet  clean    by   death  our  narrowed  lives   from 
stain. 

EDINBURGH 


PARTING  43 


PARTING 

\T  flTH   silent   lips,   and   full   hearts,   passion- 
^  ^  stirred. 

We  watch  the  sands  run  low, 
And  hesitate  to  speak  the  final  word, — 

Yet  one  of  us  must  go. 
And  round  us  closes  in  the  mist  and  rain, — 
The  long,  unending  chill  of  years  of  pain, — 
We  turn  away  and  never  meet  again ; 

Must  fate  foredoom  it  so  ? 

We  turn  away  and  never  meet  again : 

Say,  why  must  these  things  be  ? 
Our  sole  reply,  inexorably  plain, 

That  things  are  as  we  see. 
Our  world  is  but  a  world  of  long  good-byes, 
O'er  every  meeting  still  the  shadow  lies 
Of  far-off  watching  with  dull,  straining  eyes 

Down  endless  hopes  and  vain. 

And  though,  within  the  dark  unrolling  ways. 

Some  ghost  may  yet  remain 
Of  what  was  you  or  I  in  earlier  days, 

We  cannot  meet  again  : 


44  PARTING 

It  is  not  we, — we  in  our  youth  have  fled, 
Fled  never  to  return ;  our  youth  is  dead. 
What  hollow  mockery  is  this  instead 
That  cruel  fates  ordain  ? 

Oh,  Love,  *  thyself,  dost  thou  no  healing  know? 

Must  thou  still  fight  and  fail  ? 
Come  pain,  come  death,  come  torture,  every  woe; — 

Take  all  that  may  avail : 
Our  life,  our  soul,  all  other  joys,  and  heap 
Eternities  of  sorrows  ages  deep. 
But  give  us  each  to  each — thus  much  to  keep, 

And  all  the  rest  may  go. 

But  no — farewell — one  fevered  kiss  and  strained, 

Filled  full  with  wild  despair. 
Until   the   blood   starts   back    where   white    lips 
pained. 

Close  pressed  as  grief  can  bear. 
One  faint  good-bye — then  blank  for  evermore; 
The  world  is  cold,  and  nothing  lies  before ; 
And  oh,  the  stillness,  creeping  o'er  and  o'er 

The  sad  mist-laden  air! 

CADILLAC,   MICHIGAN 
Eros. 


TO-MORROW  45 


TO-MORROW 

MAIDENS  mine,  now  haste  ye,  haste  ye  hither 
And  release  my  flowing  hair  for  me ; 
Let  it  fall  about  me  as  a  mantle 

Down  from  head  to  knee. 
Help  me  lay  aside  my  clinging  raiment, — 
I  asleep  would  be. 

For,  the  sooner  slumber  seals  my  eyelids, 
Swiftlier  shall  the  long  night  turn  to  day, 

And  the  darkness  melting  into  morning 
Lift  all  fear' away. 

Shall  to-morrow's  morn  not  be  the  gayest, 
Gayest  of  the  gay  ? 

In  the  glass  but  dimly  are  reflected, 
As  the  candles  flicker  faint  and  low, 

Lips  that  he  has  kissed,  and  kissed  how  often 
I  alone  can  know  ; 

While  his  jewels,  sparkling  'mid  the  shadows, 
Shining  come  and  go. 


46  TO-MORROW 

Maidens  mine,  now  haste  ye,  haste  ye  hither ; 

Speed  the  lagging  dawn  as  best  ye  may, 
When  we  two,  the  bridal  banquet  ended, 

Seas  unknown  essay — 
Leaving  all  the  weary  past  behind  us 

As  we  sail  away. 

Maidens  mine,  my  eyes  grow  dull  and  heavy,— 
'Tis  the  last  time  I  alone  must  rest; 

I  shall  kiss  his  brow,  when  sad  or  weary. 
Pillowed  on  my  breast, 

While  we  hear  the  sea-bird  ever  calling 
Round  her  rock-built  nest. 

Now  good-night,  and  leave  me  softly  sleeping. 
Dreams  of  maiden  memories  gliding  by  ; 

Or  'mid  wonderlands  of  future  promise. 
Where  Love's  gardens  lie. 

May  I  gather  joy's  enchanted  blossoms. 
Blooms  that  never  die. 

Morning  breaks,  but  at  the  kirk  she  waiteth. 
Wind  and  rain  are  roaring  in  the  West; 

Night  at  length  comes  on,  a  lonely  chamber 
Offers  her  no  rest : 

Ocean  waves  are  kissing  his  fair  forehead. 
Pillowed  on  their  breast. 

LONDON 


CHILDHOOD 


47 


CHILDHOOD 

/~^OME  back  to  me,  wee  maiden  of  my  dreams, 
^"^  With  all  life's  future  drifting  past  thy  feet. 
What  of  no  worth  and  what  of  value  seems, 

That   thou   would'st   hold    or   fling   away,    my 
Sweet? 

Come  back  to  me,  wee  maiden  of  my  heart: 
'Tis  just  because  thou  art  not  that  nor  this, 

But  limitless  in  all  the  ways  that  part. 
That  thou  art  more  to  me  than  all  that  is. 

Come  back  to  me,  wee  maiden  of  unrest; 

For  Youth  and  Longing  look  for  what  is  not ; 
Youth,  undismayed,  essays  an  endless  quest 

And  Longing  wings  the  ways  that  life  forgot. 

Come  back  to  me,  wee  maiden  of  dark  death : 
Desire  will  slay,  or  die  when  satisfied ; 

And  infinite  enchantment  vanisheth 

When   thou   art  grown.     'Tis   then   that   thou 
hast  died. 


48  CHILDHOOD 

Come  back  to  me,  wee  maiden  of  my  hour; 

Then  let  desire  swift  slay  me  when  he  will, 
I  would  not  stay  him,  though  I  had  the  power ; 

For  in  death's  dreams  thou  wilt  be  living  still. 

S.S.    'ARABIC' 

MID-ATLANTIC 


THE  ISLE  OF  FOULA  (THULE)  49 


THE    ISLE    OF    FOULA    [THULE] 

"^T  7H0  is  it  loves  the  sea, 

^^       And  the  salt  sea-spray  on  his  face? 
Come,  let  him  sail  with  me 

And  flee  from  the  land  for  a  space. 
Let  us  leave  the  long  stretches  of  road, 

Hemmed  in  by  the  hedges  and  walls, 
And  turn  where  the  limitless  tides  have  flowed 

And  the  voice  of  the  sea-bird  calls. 

Let  us  make  for  the  queen  of  the  deep, 

The  lonely  isle  of  the  North, 
Precipitous,  towering,  and  steep, 

That  over  the  waste  looks  forth. 
Wherever  the  eye  may  gaze. 

Be  it  North,  South,  East,  or  West, 
There  is  naught  to  behold  but  the  wide  sea-ways 

And  the  ships  on  the  ocean's  breast. 

It  is  there  that  we  live  in  the  seas, — 

No  stretches  of  country  behind. 
Not  a  breath  of  a  land-blown  breeze, 

Each  wind  is  a  sea-blown  wind. 

D 


50  THE  ISLE  OF  FOULA  (THULE) 

Far  in  the  uttermost  tide 

Agricola  saw  her  stand, 
With  the  clouds  on  her  faint  far  peaks  that  hide 

Thule,  the  ultimate  land. 

ISLE  OF  FOULA 


^tXeiv  r&v  i^ikraraiv  ra  (piXraTa  $1 


^iXelv  T(OV  (f>L\ToiT(OV  TOL  (f)i\.TaTa 

Aristotle  :  Muller,  '  Frag.  Hist.,'  ii.  p.  150. 

The  Malians,  who  had  endured  many  things  from  war  and  other 
causes,  sent  to  the  oracle  at  Delphi  for  advice.  The  reply,  whose 
jingle  and  the  double  meaning  of  (^lAeii/,  which  means  both  to  love 
and  to  kiss,  can  hardly  be  rendered  into  English,  instead  of  being  an 
exhortation  to  battle,  was  that  they  should  love  and  kiss  the  most 
lovable  and  kissable  of  the  most  lovable  and  kissable.  This  they 
thought  must  refer  to  the  children;  so  they  instituted  a  custom  of 
handing  them  round,  naked,  at  the  feasts  to  be  kissed.  After  this  all 
went  well  with  them, 

nPHE  feast  draws  near  its  ending, 
-■-       The  fiery  wine 's  aflow, 
And  golden  lamps  are  lending 

A  strange  refulgent  glow ; 
While,  past  the  shadowy  porches, 

The  shimmering  lights  begin, 
Long  lines  of  lambent  torches 

That  lead  the  children  in. 

Meek  maidens  and  proud  mothers 

Their  matchless  burdens  bear  ; 
Bold  fathers  and  brave  brothers 

Receive  with  reverent  care 
And  lift  aloft  with  laughter 

Each  radiant  girl  and  boy. 
Till  every  echoing  rafter 

Rings  with  resounding  joy. 


52  ^tXelv  Toiv  <f>i\TdTQ)v  TO.  (^iXrara 

Wise  words  at  Delphi  spoken 

Illume  the  years  untold  : 
Love's  fingers  clasp  unbroken 

What  no  mere  might  may  hold. 
Might's  gleaming  gauntlet  misses 

Love's  glow  in  hands  ungloved. 
'  Love  ye  with  love's  own  kisses 

The  loveliest  of  the  loved.' 

So  pledge  in  love  undying 

Their  fame  for  future  years, 
While,  on  your  strength  relying, 

They  fling  away  all  fears ; 
Yet  to  their  childhood  golden 

Ye  cling,  who  once  have  wist 
That  long  grey  years  and  olden 

Steal  all  your  love  has  kissed. 

Truer  than  trust  hereafter 

Their  wondering,  youthful  eyes, 
The  lilt  of  children's  laughter 

All  wisdom's  wealth  outvies ; 
Yet  boyhood's  loveliest  graces 

Or  maiden's  magic  mien 
Leave  but  the  lingering  traces 

Of  memories  unseen. 


^iXeiv  rS)v  <f>c\TdT(ov  to,  ^iKTara  53 

Ye  weave  your  lives  around  them 

And  work  their  weal  alone, 
And  wistful  watch  without  them 

When,  fledged,  your  brood  has  flown ; 
For,  as  ye  pass  Death's  portal, 

The  Gods  will  only  give 
To  be  so  far  immortal 

That  in  these  lives  ye  live. 

What  do  ye  know  ol  sorrow 

Who  have  not  drained  her  cup  ? 
How  will  ye  face  the  morrow 

With  these  last  dregs  to  sup  ? 
Mayhap  through  empty  spaces, 

With  poignant  pulse  of  pain, 
Ye  '11  seek  those  winsome  faces 

And  wear  and  wait  in  vain. 

And  in  their  last  long  sleeping. 

So  still  and  frail  and  white. 
Ye  '11  strive  amid  love's  weeping 

To  print  upon  your  sight, 
Ere  the  dark  earth  is  falling 

And  the  last  rites  are  said, 
Clear  lines  for  sad  recalling 

Dear  visions  of  your  dead. 

EDINBURGH 


54  INDIVIDUALITY 


INDIVIDUALITY 

THE  soaring  towers  have  come  to  grief, 
The  wind  sweeps  through  the  roofless  hall, 
The  toad-flax  with  its  ivied  leaf 
Creeps  over  all. 


And  we,  whose  pulsing  blood  was  hot 
In  youth's  extravagance  of  strain, 

Grown  slow  through  changing  years  are  not 
The  same  again. 

The  far-famed  monument  we  see 

Inevitably  must  decay 
Till  time  annihilate.     So  we 

Shall  pass  away. 

They  say, — *  our  place  shall  yet  be  filled ; 

The  race  of  mortals  goes  not  by ; 
The  child's  glad  laughter  is  not  stilled 

Though  children  die. 


INDIVIDUALITY  55 

'Sweet  children  in  the  years  to  be 

Shall  wring  love's  heart  as  once  of  old, 

And  childhood's  beauty  endlessly 
Its  blooms  unfold.' 

Nay  mock  us  not  with  idle  tales ; 

'Tis  individual  life  we  crave : 
No  vague  inclusive  whole  avails 

Our  faith  to  save. 

What  is  a  race  that  knows  not  men, 
A  scheme  that  is  no  scheme  of  things, 

A  city  without  citizen  ? — 
Void  fancyings. 

Ah  Love !  I  kissed  thee  yesterday. 
To-night  I  lean  thy  lips  above ; — 

Take  kisses,  glances,  words  away, — 
And  where  is  love  ? 

All  tuneless  were  heaven's  voids  remote, 

And  indistinguishably  vain. 
If  each  soul's  own  peculiar  note 

Lived  not  again. 

EDINBURGH 


56         THE  MAUSSOLLEION-CHARIOTEER 


THE   MAUSSOLLEION-CHARIOTEER 

'  o)  Ttx^V  TTVfvfiaToi  ciiKvrepa.' 

TTE  leans  alert  o'er  the  chariot-rail  and  looks 

■■-  -^        toward  the  goal : 

In   the   shadowy   vault   beneath   the    brow   light 

breaks  from  the  burning  soul. 
O  how  shall  we  learn,  O  how  shall  we  know,  the 

name  of  the  mage  so  great, 
Who,  spurning  the  bounds  of  human  skill,  did  a 

god's  task  consummate? 

Is  it  thee,  O  Skopas,  we  must  praise  for  the  rush 

and  the  sweeping  line, 
For  the  parted  lips  and  the  breathing  hope  from 

the  yearning  heart  divine, 
For  the  perfect  form,  whose  perfection  points  to 

a  more  than  perfect  yet, 
Where  the  midmost  splendour  of  heaven  would 

seem  but  as  darkness  to  forget? 

We  may  never  know  the  hand  that  drew  that  face 

with  its  living  fire ; 
We  may  never  tell  the  power  that  filled  those 

eyes  with  their  swift  desire, 


THE  MAUSSOLLEION-CHARIOTEER  57 

And  the  strenuous  strife  of  the  agony  that  could 
not  be  expressed, — 

The  thing  that  men  call  art  that  strives  to  over- 
pass the  best. 

Yet  world  after  world  has  the  sculptor  seen,  and 

world  after  world  flung  by. 
To  chisel  anew  a  remoter  dream  than  the  dull 

days  signify, 
From  the  aspirations  of  age-long  years  that  the 

perfect  type  despise. 
Till  here  in  the  utmost  art  we  find  the  romance 

of  the  heart's  emprise. 

And    even  the   swirl   of  the  chiton's  hem   hints 

more  than  a  god  may  see: 
Ah  leave,  ah  leave  mere  truth  behind  and  seek  for 

what  cannot  be. 
O  what  of  the  goal,   and  what  of  the  way,  and 

what  of  the  flying  steed, — 
For  'tis  on  and  on  through  the  infinite,  while  the 

stars  and  the  light  cry  '  speed.' 

S.S.    'ARABIC' 


58  THE  DAWN 


THE    DAWN 

THE  light  breaks  through  the  latticed  pane 
And  once  more  wakes  me  to  renew 
The  hateful  past,  whose  woeful  strain 
Presses  upon  my  throbbing  brain 
And  nothing  can  undo. 

And  the  long  future  rises  blank, 

An  irremediable  waste, 
Where  black  sand  stretches  bank  on  bank  ; 
Black  basalt  hills  close  either  flank, 

With  mocking  snow  enlaced. 

And  hopeless,  toward  an  unseen  God, 

With  burning  feet,  I  creep  dismayed, 
And  fear  to  view  the  way  untrod. 
While,  awed  by  his  chastising  rod, 
I  dare  not  seek  for  aid. 

Yet  no !  the  gloomy  past  is  dead, 

And  as  I  wake  its  phantoms  flee; 
Red-gold  the  Eastern  light  is  shed. 
And,  rich  with  promise,  gilds  thy  head 
And  strikes  athwart  to  me. 


THE  DAWN  59 

Sweet  little  wife,  whose  truant  hair 

Darkly  across  the  pillow  steals 
And  shadows  half  thy  cheek  so  fair, 
Yet,  where  the  snow-white  throat  lies  bare, 

Its  loveliness  reveals, 

Sleep  softly,  only  let  me  gaze, 

Awed  as  I  watch  thee  breathing  low : 
Gently  the  shifting  shadow  plays, 
As  life  works  out  the  appointed  ways 
Rising  and  falling  slow. 

Whence  came  that  life  and,  stranger  still, 
The  trembling  love  that  whispers :  *  Mine  ' 

And  blends  two  souls  one  fate  to  fill, 

And,  bound  within  a  Higher  Will, 
Foreshadows  the  Divine? 

I  saw  thee  first,  when  years,  now  spent, 
Proffered  scant  draughts  of  earthly  bliss ; 

Yet,  ere  the  fateful  moment  went, 

In  burning  flame  our  spirits  blent 
In  one  supernal  kiss. 

'Twas  thus  I  knew  thee,  child,  although 
Till  then  our  eyes  had  never  met ; 


6o  THE  DAWN 

For,  in  those  blue  deeps  far  below, 
Throned  'mid  thy  pure  thoughts'  tranquil  flow, 
I  saw  the  Eternal  set. 

And,  from  my  clouded  sight,  the  mist 
Vanished  for  ever  in  love's  blaze. 

Through  thee,  the  wonder-gift,  I  wist 

The  Giver  I  so  long  had  missed 
In  reason's  devious  maze. 

And  in  the  joy  of  that  love-smile, 

That  shone  from  the  far  face  of  God, 
The  love-lit  clouds  of  earth  grew  red, 
And,  as  the  long-drawn  winter  sped, 
They  flushed  the  vernal  sod. 

And  all  the  endless  road  grew  bright, 

Grew  bright  with  flowers  on  either  hand, 

Bewilderingly  infinite. 

Whereon  we  fleet  with  footsteps  light 
Through  an  enchanted  land. 

ISLE  OF  FOULA 


THE  SEA-QUEEN  6i 


THE    SEA-QUEEN 

THE  day  dies  down  into  deepening  gloom,  and 
the  wind  for  once  is  still, 
And  the  shadows  rise  in  a  dim  dark  pool  to  the 

height  of  the  window  sill ; 
The   old    house   creaks    as    the   silence    spreads 

unruffled  and  vast  and  drear, 
Till  the  slightest  sound  is  an  echoing  knell  as  it 
falls  on  the  startled  ear. 

The  sand  lies  glimmering,  strange  and  grey,  at  the 

foot  of  the  craggy  steep, 
While  the  ominous,  inky,  sullen  sea  has  lulled  its 

waves  to  sleep, 
And  the  snags  stand  gaunt  on  the  desolate  shore 

'mid  the  sea-weed  dry  and  stiff. 
Where  bleaching  bones  of  shipwrecked  men  show 

faint  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff. 

Alone  in  the  creaking  house  I  sit,  and  I  know  that 

the  end  must  be 
Some  day,  by  a  way  that  I  cannot  escape,  in  this 

house  by  the  wintry  sea ; 


62  THE  SEA-QUEEN 

Where  memory  broods  o'er  the  days  of  old  as  the 

shapes  creep  forth  and  stare, 
And  the  wan  white  face  of  my  Love  looks  out 

from  the  shadowy  mist  of  her  hair. 

The  wan  white  face  of  my  Love  in  pain,  who 

stretches  her  arms  to  speak. 
And  I  strive  to  hear,  and  listen  in  vain,  as  the 

oaken  timbers  creak. 
Or  I  catch  her  footfall  soft  and  light,  and  turn, 

but  she  is  not  there — 
My  Love,  who  sleeps  on  the  couch  of  Death  in  the 

land  of  my  hope's  despair. 

Oh,  why  is  my  heart  so  sick  with  dread,  and  what 

has  my  soul  to  fear, 
When  the  ultimate  realm  of  Death  itself  keeps  all 

that  I  hold  most  dear? 
My  beautiful  Love,  with  her  beautiful  hands  and 

her  lips  with  their  fragrant  breath. 
Shall  press  my  face  to  her  own  once  more,  yes, 

there  in  the  land  of  Death. 

Yet  still  through  the  creak  of  the  dismal  house  I 

hear  a  pitiful  sigh. 
And  a  warning  tells  me  my  hope  is  vain,  yet  how 

can  I  else  than  die  ? 


THE  SEA-QUEEN  63 

A  raven  sweeps  by  the  window   pane  from  his 

haunt  on  the  storm-rent  hill, 
And  a  log  from  the  fire  slips  down  with  a  crash ; 

then  even  the  house  is  still. 

And  ever  the  months  and  the  years  have  gone  and 

ever  that  low  sad  sigh 
In  the  weary  house  by  the  perilous  shore,  where 

my  only  hope  is  to  die ; 
And  menacing  half-seen  forms  appear  remorseless, 

cruel,  and  grim, 
Whose  long  lean  arms,  reaching  out  as  I  pass,  still 

lurk  in  the  shadows  dim. 

And  they  draw  me  near  to  the  window  pane, 
where  I  cannot  avoid  the  sight. 

As  the  moon  with  her  deathly  sapphire  sheen 
sheds  ever  her  loveless  light ; 

And  I  shut  my  eyes,  but  my  ears  must  hear  what- 
ever the  curse  may  bring, 

And,  if  my  resisting  eyes  unclose,  I  shall  see  the 
fearful  thing. 

For  the  doom  has  come,  it  is  all  around,  oppressive 

and  near  and  still. 
And  I  struggle  to  free  myself,  close  pressed  by 

those  arms  'gainst  the  window  sill. 


64  THE  SEA-QUEEN 

Then  sudden  I  hear  the  harrowing  cry  of  my  Love 

in  her  fear  for  me, 
And  my  limbs  grow  numb  and  the  cold  sweat  falls 

as  the  terror  comes  over  the  sea; 

While  a  sound,  enticing,  alluring,  wild,  wells  up 

from  the  hideous  night, 
Of  a    music   that    thrills   through   my   quivering 

nerves  with  the  pain  of  a  fierce  delight. 
And,  could  I  but  keep   my  eyelids  closed,  who 

knows  but  the  hour  might  turn? 
Yet  my  courage  fails  as  the  spirit  quails,  and  I 

open  them  wide  and  learn. 

And  here,  below,  at  the  water's  marge,  there  sits 

in  the  dreary  light 
A  maiden,  shaped  for  a  god  to  limn,  with  ivory 

form  and  white ; 
Her  locks  more  dense  than  the  inky  deep  and  her 

splendid  limbs  all  bare, 
While  the  gleaming  glint  of  her  shoulder  shows 

through  the  wealth  of  her  wonderful  hair. 

And  oh,  her  magical  twin  white  breasts  and  her 

delicate,  slender  throat. 
And  the  mystical  curve  of  the  rare  red  lips  whence 

the  ravishing  melodies  float; 


THE  SEA-QUEEN  65 

So  finely  modelled  and  cleanly  cut  is  the  scheme 
of  her  body's  grace — 

Oh,  how  can  my  spirit  dare  to  endure  the  enchant- 
ing lure  of  her  face  ? 

Yet  your  eyes  are  cruel  and  grey,  Sea-Queen,  and 

your  lips  are  too  luscious  and  sweet, 
As  a  poisoned  flower  in  the  glade  that  shows  its 

beauty  of  dark  deceit ; 
And  the  rippling  strength  of  your  agile  form  is 

hard,  unyielding,  and  chill : 
You  never  could  nestle  by  me,  Sea-Queen,  softly 

and  warm  and  still. 

But  I  feel  the  spell  of  your  passionate  song  and 

am  thralled  by  your  witching  gaze, 
And  the  murky  mass  of  your  marvellous  hair  has 

twined  my  heart  in  its  maze, 
And  your  lovely  limbs  with  the  pleading  arms 

and  your  exquisite  hands  and  feet 
Are  drawing  the  uttermost  deeps  of  my  soul : — 

You  are  cruel,  in  sooth, — but  sweet. 

And  sweet  is  the  thought  of  your  strange  em- 
brace ;  yet  what  are  the  bones  on  the  shore, 

Whose  immortal  souls  you  have  made  your  own 
and  v/hose  bodies  are  seen  no  more  ? 

E 


66  THE  SEA-QUEEN 

Oh,  why  must  you  take  my  soul,  Sea-Queen ;  and 
your  kisses,  oh,  why  must  they  be 

Dear  bought,  at  so  vast  a  price  of  doom,  on  the 
strand  of  this  wintry  sea? 

But  now  you  have  made  me  your  own,  Sea-Queen, 

and  bewildered  and  thralled  I  go 
Where   ruby-tipped  are  the  breasts  of  pearl  on 

that  bosom  of  coldest  snow. 
Yet  oh!  as  I  pass  from  the  haunted  house  and 

the  threshold  of  fate  is  crossed, 
I  hear  the  agonised  cry  of  Love  that  fought  for 

my  soul  and  lost. 

And  you  draw  me  down  with  your  direful  spell  in 

the  whirling,  narrowing  years, 
Whose  clamorous  eddies  cannot  drown  that  wild 

lament  in  my  ears ; 
And,  or  ever  I  touch  those  frozen  lips,  I  learn  at 

the  last,  too  late, 
When  clasped  in  the  ice   of  a  dead  desire,  how 

this  is  not  love — but  hate. 

NEW  HAVEN,   CONN,,   U.S.A. 


IRRESOLUTION  67 


IRRESOLUTION 

HE  would  come  back,  if  I  should  call, 
Before  he  reached  the  turning  in  the  lane, 
And  once  again  his  burning  words  would  fall. 

And  I  would  read  the  love  revealed  more  plain 
Than  it  were  written  fair  in  white  and  black : 
He  would  come  back. 

And  now  he  passes  out  of  sight ; 

Yet  I  might  run  and  stay  him  as  he  goes. 
And  the  deep  eyes,  lit  with  far-searching  light. 

Would  flame  the  love  he  deems  not  that  he 
shows. 
And  at  my  side  up  the  familiar  track 

He  would  come  back. 

And  now  the  moment  has  gone  by : 

Is  it  too  late — might  I  not  write — and  then 

He,  ere  the  ship  had  spread  her  wings  to  fly. 
My  letter  to  his  lips,  would  turn  again 

And,  swift  as  vessel  on  a  favouring  tack. 
He  would  come  back  ? 


68  IRRESOLUTION 

What  though  he  go,  is  he  so  fair, 

Or  tall  or  swift  of  foot  beyond  his  peers? 

Eyes  he  may  have  and  tremulous  lips  and  rare 
And  power  and  learning  of  the  endless  years ; 

But  others  have  their  charm  who  these  things  lack, 
Though  he  come  back. 

And  now  the  long  seas  intervene  ; 

Yea,  though  I  write,  ere  this  he  may  forget, 
And  yet  he  may  have  thoughts  of  what  has  been. 

And  all  my  wayward  v.Mlfulness  regret. 
And  e'en  forgive  the  wounds  I  gave,  alack : 

He  might  come  back. 

Yes,  he  might  come,  I  see  it  plain: 

His  hands  about  my  face,  while  through  my  eyes 
He  gazes  to  my  soul  and  calms  its  pain ; 

Then,  lip  to  lip,  my  pride  and  folly  dies. 
But  oh,  the  shame  and  the  remorseful  rack. 

Though  he  come  back ! 

Nay,  he  will  never  come,  I  knov;^. 

What  I  have  done  is  done,  my  sun  has  set. 
While  my  best  self,  through  the  blank  years  and 
slow. 

Will  conquer  the  low  self  that  might  forget. 
Although  no  more  along  the  shadowy  track 

Can  he  come  back. 

EDINBURGH 


THE  HOUR  OF  MEETING  69 


THE    HOUR    OF    MEETING 

TS  it  too  much  I  ask — 

■*•     More  than  is  meet  or  lies  within  your  power? 

I  know  how  busy  is  your  life  of  care, 

Ye  have  so  many  duties  otherwhere, 

I  would  not  ask  for  more  than  ye  can  spare. 

Could  ye  not  bide  and  watch  with  Me  one  hour  ? 
Is  it  too  much  I  ask  ? 

Could  ye  not  watch  one  hour — 

One  little  hour  from  out  the  store  of  days 
That  pauseless  glide,  a  golden  gift  from  Me  ? 
Is  aught  not  Mine  of  all  the  things  that  be? 
What  hold  ye  of  your  own  of  all  ye  see 

That  ye  should  fail  in  this  scant  meed  of  praise  ? 
Could  ye  not  watch  one  hour? 

Could  ye  but  watch  one  hour, 

If  not  to  render  back — why,  then,  for  gain. 
To  be  removed  from  strain  of  stirring  strife, 
From  anxious  care  of  your  too  fevered  life, 
Fraught  with  despondence  and  with  troubles  rife, 

'Twould  be  as  dreams  of  peace  from  weary  pain — 
Could  ye  but  watch  one  hour. 


70  THE  HOUR  OF  MEETING 

An  ye  would  watch  one  hour, 

Though  but  to  turn  your  mind  to  serious  things, 
To  high  philosophies  and  sober  thought, 
And  leave  the  market  of  the  sold  and  bought, 
And  all  material  good  that  men  have  sought. 

Wide  wonder-worlds  would  greet  your  soaring 
wings 
An  ye  could  watch  one  hour. 

But,  if  with  Me  ye  watched, 

And  in  the  stillness  listened  silently. 
Then  would  My  spirit  speak  in  silvern  tone. 
And  in  direct  communion  with  Mine  own 
Each  would  be  one  with  Me,  we  two  alone, 

The  while  there  ceased  all  things  men  touch  or 
see. 
If  but  with  Me  ye  watched. 

Could  ye  not  watch  with  Me  ? 

Am  I  too  far,  who  yet  hold  you  so  dear? 
Have  ye  not  watched,  in  other  time  and  place, 
With    sons    and    daughters    of  your   own    loved 

race, 
While  the  hearts  burned  till  darkness  fell  apace  ? 

Love  an  ye  will ;  I  am  Love's  self  and  near. 
Could  ye  not  watch  with  Me  ? 


THE  HOUR  OF  MEETING  71 

One  hour  ye  watch,  and  then 

Another  summons  calls  you  to  depart, 
Some  high  pursuit,  some  intellectual  aim, 
Some  noble  deed,  some  petty  social  claim — 
The  sixty  minutes  measured  out  the  same. 

Must  ye  resent  My  pleadings  at  your  heart? 
One  hour  ye  watch  ;  and  then ? 

The  watch  is  over  now. 

As  o'er  Jerusalem  I  wept  of  yore 
So  must  I  weep  again  in  this  sad  day, 
And  feel  the  nails  that  tear,  the  wounds  that  slay ; 
So  late  ye  came,  so  punctually  away. 

The  hour  is  gone — nay,  linger  here  no  more ; 
The  watch  is  over  now. 

EDINBURGH 


72  THE  LITTLE  PRINCESS 


THE    LITTLE    PRINCESS 

SHE  lies  within  the  chapel  fair, 
The  little  princess  white  and  still, 
Her  dark  resplendent  waves  of  hair 
The  aisles  with  subtle  fragrance  fill. 

Two  candles  stand  behind  her  head 
And  two  her  straightened  feet  before ; 

Calmly  their  mellow  lights  are  shed 
And  o'er  her  pallid  beauty  pour. 

When,  through  the  lonely  stillness  there, 
A  page  steals  in  with  noiseless  tread. 

So  slight  and  slim  and  debonair, 
With  ivory  skin  and  shapely  head. 

Within  his  hands  are  roses  three. 
And  one  he  places  on  her  brow, 

And  kisses  her  most  wistfully, 

Who  heedeth  not  his  passion  now. 


THE  LITTLE  PRINCESS  73 

And  one  he  lays  upon  her  breast. 

And  fervent  kisses  her  again ; 
The  third  between  her  feet  doth  rest, 

Sealed  with  a  kiss  of  beating  pain. 

*  One  kiss  for  when  I  saw  you  first, 

The  little  maid  of  seven  years  ; 
One  for  the  frenzied  hope  I  nursed 

When,  ten  years  old,  I  dried  your  tears. 

*  And  one,  when  fourteen  years  are  gone, 

With  hot  lips  on  your  icy  feet. 
Will  the  world  really  still  go  on 

When  you  are  dead — are  dead,  my  sweet  ? ' 

EDINBURGH 


FROM  THE   FOUR  AIRTS 

I.  FROM  THE  NORTH. 

EDINBURGH  :  LINES  FROM  FAR  NORTH 

II.  FROM  THE  SOUTH. 
THE  NORTH  WIND. 

III.  FROM  THE  EAST. 

THE   FIRTH   OF   FORTH. 

IV.  FROM  THE  WEST. 

AULD  REEKIE. 


EDINBURGH  :    LINES  FROM  FAR  NORTH     77 


EDINBURGH 

LINES    FROM   FAR   NORTH 

rURN    Southward   o'er   the  hills;    take  hands 
with  me, 
Past  where  the  labourer  on  the  Fifeshire  fields 
Gazes  across  the  narrow  band  of  sea 
And  views  the  smoke,  slow  drifting  to  the  lee, 
That  the  great  city  yields. 

For  no  brief  moment  in  a  thousand  years 
Yon  smoke  has  failed  to  drift  along  the  sky. 

Auld  Reekie  still  her  murky  cloud-crest  rears ; 

And  the  grey  rock  now  looms,  now  disappears. 
As  in  the  days  gone  by. 

What  though  the  North-East  wind  cuts  clear  and 
keen 

Down  every  street  and  turning  as  a  knife! 
Dearer  to  me  than  Southern  slopes  and  green. 
Lulled  by  the  languid  airs  of  lands  serene, 

Sleep-bound,  devoid  of  life. 


78  FROM  THE  FOUR  AIRTS 

Oh,  hearts  that  beat ;  oh,  hands  alive  and  strong, 

Live  not  upon  the  glories  of  the  past, 
Singing  the  same  reiterated  song, 
Nor  tarry  with  the  dreamers  overlong 
Till  all  be  overcast ! 

Let  the  keen  airs  bestir  you  as  of  old. 

And,  ere  the  beauty  and  the  grace  have  fled, 
And  Mammon  with  foul  fingers  overbold 
Steal  from  the  palsied  grasp  the  gifts  ye  hold, 
Rise  up  and  strike  him  dead. 

The  mighty  cliff  that  broods  above  the  town 
And  deems  but  one  akropolis  its  peer. 

No   wind-swept   loch   now   greets  when   looking 
down, 

Nor  gentle  dames  and  lords  of  high  renown 
Dwell  in  its  barracks  drear. 

And  all  adown  the  famed  historic  mile, 

Begrimed,    besmirched,    the    houses    leer    and 
gape, 
Though   every  stone   boasts   how   it   fared   erst- 
while, 
Which  now  rude  filth  and  ruder  hands  defile 
Where  nothing  can  escape. 


EDINBURGH  :   LINES  FROM  FAR  NORTH     79 

Gather  the  last  few  fragments  that  remain 

And  of  the  vanished  gold  some  gleam  restore. 
An  ye  but  loved  your  city,  not  in  vain 
Would  rise  her  desolate  cry,  and  she  would  gain 
More  beauty  than  before. 

Old  memories  with  old  beauties  intertwine ; 

The  western  light  flames  full  on  Arthur's  Seat, 
Though  Blackford  Hill,  grown  grey,  has  ceased  to 

shine. 
My   own   school   days   return;   steps   pace    with 
mine 
Down  each  familiar  street. 

Oft  in  the  hours  of  boyhood  did  we  twain 

Pass  through  the  long  green  roads  of  Morning- 
side, 

That  hath  no  equal  in  the  King's  domain ; 

A  city  where  fair  gardens  and  walled  lane 
Suggestive  mysteries  hide. 

But  he  has  gone,  and  beauty  followeth. 

For  naked  flats  rise  gaunt  on  every  hand ; 
While  the  dross-gatherers  chuckle  under  breath, 
Who  sell  God's  beauty  for  the  coins  of  Death 
And  desecrate  the  land. 


8o  FROM  THE  FOUR  AIRTS 

Yea,  he  is  gone,  as  all  things  fair  must  die. 

Ere  our  love's  labour  even  had  begun. 
Two  had  done  much,  but  what  alone  can  I 
'Mid  the  rude  roar  that  drowns  my  bitter  cry?— 
And  none  will  aid — not  one. 

O  wondrous  City,  still  so  fair  to  see, 

Must  thou  be  last  who  might  so  well  be  first? 

And  ye — turn  North  again ;  take  hands  with  me ; 

Nay,  look  not  back  on  Sodom,  should  she  be 
Found  wanting  and  accurst. 

EDINBURGH 


THE  NORTH  WIND  8i 


II 


THE    NORTH    WIND 
(With  apologies  to  J.  M.) 

THE  North  Wind  is  calling,  there  is  white  upon 
the  hills  ; 
The  cold  snow  is  falling  and  every  valley  fills ; 
And   evermore  my  spirit  hears,  as  Southward  I 

must  roam, 
The  skirl  about  the  ingle-neuk  in  the  old  Scots 
home. 

Eerie  is  the  North  Wind  and  weird  with  ancient 

tales : 
It  tells  of  Highland  forays  amid  the  winter  gales. 
Grand  are  the  grey  hills,  and  oh,  the  dreary  drouth 
Of  the  level,  lochless  country  in  the  sultry,  sunny 

South ! 

The  North  Wind,  the  strong  wind,  the  wind  for 

mighty  men ; 
The  wild  wind,  the  fierce  wind,  that  whistles  down 

the  glen ; 

F 


82  FROM  THE  FOUR  AIRTS 

The  wind  for  sturdy  laddies  and  for  bonnie,  win- 
some maids; 

The  wind  of  far-off  childhood  and  of  boyish 
escapades. 

It 's  blue  eyes  and  bright  eyes  and  days  of  long 

ago 
That   keep   my    heart   from  breaking   whenever 

North  Winds  blow; 
And  voices  seem  to  whisper,  as  it  wails  around 

the  lum, 
And  it's  only  down  the  North  Wind  that  kisses 

ever  come. 

It  soughs  through  the  Pentlands,  where  my  weary 
heart  would  be, 

From  AUermuir  to  Castlelaw  and  down  by 
Loganlee, 

And  on  past  the  clachan  by  the  mouldering  head- 
stone tall, 

Where  a  solitary  poppy  flames  against  the  kirk- 
yard  wall. 

I  feel  its  frenzied  blowing,  and  the  truant  hours 

return 
As  it  sweeps  the  marshy  meadows  and  drowns 

the  rushing  burn. 


THE  NORTH  WIND  83 

Oh,  the  falling,  falling  water  and  the  sighing  in  the 

grass 
And  the  lowing  of  the  sleepy  kye  that  linger  in 

the  pass ! 

North  Wind,  North  Wind,  blow,  blow  to  me. 

For  in  thy  fierce  familiar  strains  can  comfort  only 

be: 
We  two  have  raced  together  by  hill  and  haugh 

and  burn. 
And  strange  to  me  the  other  winds,  whose  tongues 

I  cannot  learn. 

The  North  Wind,  the  South  Wind,  the  East  Wind, 

the  West- 
Yea,  each  has  his  own  wind,  the  wind  he  loves 

the  best; 
And  the  exile  sadly  longing,  as  his  homing  thoughts 

take  wing, 
Sings  again  the  plaintive  measure  that  he  heard 

another  sing. 

LEDBURY  AND  EDINBURGH 


84  FROM  THE  FOUR  AIRTS 


III 

THE    FIRTH    OF    FORTH 

WHO   will  come  a-sailing  on  the  dark  blue 
Forth, 
Who  will  come  a-sailing  when  the  wind    blows 

North, 
Beating  out  from  harbour  with  a  three-reefed  sail. 
Reaching  to  the  Eastward  in  a  good  half  gale? 

Stiff  is  it  blowing  from  the  clear  blue  sky. 
Sharp  is  every  outline  as  the  coast  goes  by. 
Heading  out  from  Granton  for  the  Isle  of  May, 
Not  a  thought  of  trouble  all  the  livelong  day. 

Inchcolm  behind  us  and  Inchkeith  before, 
Aberdour  Castle  on  the  far-off  shore, 
Eerie  with  the  memories  of  dim,  past  years, 
Lords'  and  ladies'  laughter — and  long  dried  tears. 

Heeling  gunwale  under  till  the  first  plank  dips. 
Slipping  through  the  water  like  the  great  steam- 
ships, 


THE  FIRTH  OF  FORTH  85 

Past  the  little  anchorage  of  Dysart  town, 
Quaint  with  corbie  gables  and  old-world  renown. 

Grey  upon  the  quarter  rises  Arthur's  Seat, 
Watching  through  the  ages  for  returning  feet : 
Straining  eyes  grow  weary,  yet  the  first  glimpse 

seems 
Full  of  home  and  welcoming  and  dear  dead  dreams. 

South  again  we  wear  her  and  we  let  her  go, 
Running  with  the  rollers  though  the  winds  may 

blow. 
Steering  for  Tantallon  and  the  Bass  Rock  proud. 
Racing  with  the  gannets  and  the  scudding  cloud. 

Up  toward  the  wind  again  we  sail  due  West, 
Singing  songs  of  longing  that  we  love  the  best, 
Singing  of  the  City  of  Midlothian's  Heart, 
Where   St.  Giles  is  watching  o'er  the  old  Lawn 
Mart. 

Home  again  to  moorings  and  luff  into  the  wind, 
Catch   the  buoy  and  furl  the  sail  and  leave  our 

boat  behind, 
Tread  the  ancient  streets  beneath  the  great  grim 

fort, 
Looming  dark  and  lonely  o'er  the  lost  West  Port. 


86  FROM  THE  FOUR  AIRTS 

Who  will  come  a-sailing  on  the  dark  blue  Forth, 
Who  will  come   a-sailing  when  the  wind  blows 

North, 
Beating  out  from  harbour  with  a  three-reefed  sail, 
Reaching  to  the  Eastward  in  a  good  half  gale? 

EDINBURGH 


AULD  REEKIE  87 


IV 

AULD    REEKIE 

TS  she  not  fair  beyond  the  poets'  dreaming, 
-■-     Ye  who  have  seen  and  loved  her  answer  me, 
Set,  as  a  silver  crown  with  emeralds  gleaming. 
By  the  grey  Northern  sea  ? 

We  who  have  lost  her,  as  afar  we  wander. 

Know  how  our   thoughts  come  creeping  back 
again 

To  linger  fondly  o'er  the  gifts  ye  squander, 
Whom  Fate  has  bid  remain. 

Toledo,  girt  by  magic  bridge  and  river ; 

Proud  Heidelberg,  that  towers  upon  the  height ; 
Venice,  whose  sunlit  waters  flash  and  quiver, — 

Rare  cities  of  delight ; 

Oxford,  scarce  touched  by  Time's  reluctant  fingers; 

Vienna,  ringed  with  glories  of  to-day  ; 
Athens,  whose  violet  crown  in  fancy  lingers, 

Peerless,  yet  passed  away. 


88  FROM  THE  FOUR  AIRTS 

What  can  they  show,  these  wonder-haunted  places, 
Strewn  golden-starred  about  the  traveller's  feet, 

That  pales  not  by  her  nature-dowered  graces, 
Queen  on  her  rock-built  seat  ? 

Here,  on  far  Western  slopes,  we  tell  her  story. 
Thrill  as  old  tales  their  joy  or  sorrow  yield. 

Quaff  reckless  toasts  to  days  of  Stuart  glory. 
And  weep  o'er  Flodden  Field. 

And,  faintly  echoing  back,  your  answers  follow : 
*  We  too  have  loved  her,  and  we  love  her  still.' 

How  may  we  know  your  protests  ring  not  hollow, 
What  deeds  your  love  fulfil  ? 


How  peacefully  the  Western  airs  are  sighing 
In  the  cool  hush  o'er  San  Francisco  Bay. 

Lo,  where  the  city  in  the  dusk  is  lying, 
A  single  light  illumes  the  deepening  grey ! 

The   sea  grows   still,  no  more  the  white  steeds, 
flying. 

Speed  o'er  the  water  as  the  winds  abate ; 
The  darkened  tideway,  ere  the  day  is  dying, 

Bolts  fast,  with  purple  bars,  the  Golden  Gate. 


AULD  REEKIE  89 

Beyond    the    bay    the    warm    brown    hills    are 
changing 

And  white  carnelians  blend  with  azurite, 
While  amethystine  clouds  are  Eastward  ranging, 

In  deeper  tones,  through  topaz-fields  of  light. 

Stern  TamalpaVs,  in  the  distance  glowing, 

Keeps  her  long  watch  o'er  lone  Pacific  seas; — 

So  calm,  so  rare,  such  tranquil  zephyrs  blowing 
With  fragrant  breath; — yet  we  so  ill  at  ease. 

One  vision  of  the  old  familiar  places, 

Where    still    our    fathers'    fathers'    footprints 

show ; 
One  vision  of  the  soul-remembered  faces, — 
And  all  the  wide  world's  pageantry  may  go! 

BERKELEY,   CALIFORNIA, 

NEAR  SAN   FRANCISCO 

Here  endeth  '  From  the  Four  Airts.' 


90  SURRENDER 


SURRENDER 

"TPIS  cold  within  the  shrine,  the  silver  lamp 

•*-      Burns  very  low ;  and  all  without  is  black, 
Save  for  the  glowing  sword  that  cleaves  the  night. 
I  haste  to  lay  my  treasures  out  of  sight 
Where,  on  the  stones,  the  rain  blows  raw  and 

damp ; 
Lest  I  should  even  now  draw  back. 

So  let  them  fall, — the  rolling  coins  of  gold ; 
For  all  that  wealth  commands  I  cherish  not. 
Take  too  the  battle-axe  that  gave  me  power, 
The  diadem  of  fame,  I  hoped  some  hour 
To  wear  when  cruel  days  had  left  me  old, 
Dear  token  I  was  not  forgot. 

I  will  give  all,  give  all  I  cling  to  most, — 
The  very  scroll  that  uttered  wisdom's  truth; 
Yea  I  will  e'en  renounce,  fast-drowned  in  tears, 
This  little  tress  from  her  of  mine  own  years. 
Young,  young  as  love; — and,  with  love,  self  is 

lost; 
So  last — I  strip  the  garb  of  youth 


SURRENDER  91 

And  naked,  face  the  darkness  and  the  rain, 
And  shudder  as  I  touch  the  flaming  sword : 
But  one  thing  bear  I  with  me  even  yet; — 
I  cannot  loose  the  girdle  of  regret: 
Must  then  the  sacrifice  be  all  in  vain? 
Have  pity,  Lord !     Have  pity,  Lord ! 

S.S     'ARABIC 


92  YOUTH'S  TRAGEDY 


YOUTH'S    TRAGEDY 

I^TORTH  turns  the  tide  and  meets  the  wind  and 

■^  ^  breaks, 

No  more  the  sullen  rollers  heaving  slow, 

But  dark  walls  rise  and  front  us  as  we  go, 

Gathering  upon  the  bosom  of  their  night 

The  foam-flakes'  driving  snow ; 

And    shudderingly   the    slight    craft    starts    and 

quakes, 
Throbbing  anew  beneath  each  dreaded  blow ; 
And  the  storm-petrel  wakes, 
As  through  the  mist  we  strain  our  weary  sight. 
And  the  waste  chaos  mocks  our  hapless  plight. 

Strain  thy  young  sinews,  Hakon,  at  the  oar. 
Strain,  strain,  and  let  us  taste  of  hope  once  more, 
Lest  out  of  yon  white-breathing  death  there  loom 
Grey  against  grey,  beneath  a  cold  grey  sky. 
The  sheer,  stark  cliffs  of  doom. 
Where  the  burn  rises  upward  in  the  gloom 
And,  cursed,  falls  not  in  Youth's  living  tomb, 
But  flings  its  waters  heavenward  to  die. 


YOUTH'S  TRAGEDY  93 

For  'neath  the  Wester  Hoevdi  cliff  he  dwells, 

The  deathless  boy,  with  sad,  regretful  gaze, 

Watching  the  cycle  of  the  endless  days, 

There  where  the  long  sea  swells. 

Oh,  fair  is  he  and  young,  and  on  his  head 

The  ruddy  gold  outflames  the  glowing  fire, 

And  from  his  haunted  sapphire  eyes  is  shed 

The  blue  wan  light  of  the  lost  soul's  desire. 

Pull  hard,  pull  hard ;  nay,  close  thy  round,  round 

eyes, 
Those  youthful  eyes,  that  other  eyes  have  seen, 
Demure  and  grave  beneath  her  fragrant  hair. 
And,  gazing  deeply,  grown  too  wondrous  wise, 
Learning  the  secret  of  the  world's  despair, 
As  all  her  hope  in  her  own  eyes  lay  bare : 
Would  God  it  had  not  been! 

'Tis  not  for  me  the  dread,  my  years  are  told. 
And  if,  indeed,  are  left  or  two  or  one, 
It  is  enough:  ere  many  moons  had  rolled 
I  might  return  and  bid  my  bairns  good-bye, 
And  climb  to  her  who  waits  me  past  the  sun 
And  the  waste  changings  of  yon  reckless  sky. 
'Tis  naught  to  me  to  loosen  my  life's  hold 
And  totter  home  to  die. 

But  thou,  my  child,  with  close   dark   locks  of 
youth 


94  YOUTH'S  TRAGEDY 

And  dawning  strength  of  manhood  in  each  limb, 
Hast  only  sipped  the  life-cup  at  the  brim. 
Much  holds  it  yet :  the  molten  heats  of  love 
And  the  chilled  dregs  of  nauseous  doubt;  'twere 

ruth 
To  lose  it  all  to  him, 

And  age-bent  scale  the  frowning  scars  above. 
Know'st  thou  the  tale  :  how  ever  there  he  stands 
Watching  what  fate  may  bring, 
And  from  the  deep  thou  hear'st  him  wildly  sing 
His  passionate  song ;  and,  stretching  out  his  hands. 
He  draws  men  on  to  yon  hope-haunted  lands, 
Where  the  dim  ghosts,  of  all  that  should  have  been 
And  never  was,  uplift  their  dolorous  wail — 
An  undertone  his  thrilling  notes  between — 
And  the  winds  waft  them  seaward  o'er  the  gale? 
In  high  Dunedin  once  thou  heard'st  a  boy 
Sing  in  the  chapel  of  the  Holy  Rood, 
And,  as  the  sweet  voice  ceased,  for  burning  joy 
Men  wept.     But  mortal  songster  never  yet 
Drew  tears  as  hot,  the  aching  lids  to  wet, 
As  fill  the  measure  of  his  interlude. 
Or  if  he  draws  thee  not  with  ravishment 
Of  his  intenser  music — ah,  why  then 
Haply  his  wondrous  form  or  azure  eyes, 
Piteous  as  though  in  pain,  with  fell  intent, 


YOUTH'S  TRAGEDY  95 

Will  drink  the  darkened  waters  of  thy  soul 
Until  the  fount  of  pity's  well-spring  dries 
And  leaves  thee,  saddest  of  the  sons  of  men, 
On  Time's  death-sated  roll. 

Perchance  thou  see'st  his  white  corse  on  the 
wave 
And,  stirred  that  earth  should  lose  a  thing  so  fair, 
Bravest  the  swirling  tide  such  grace  to  save 
From  the  chill  vaults  of  the  unfathomed  grave, 
What  time  he  mocks  thine  innocent  despair. 
And  clasps  his  slender  arms  about  thy  neck 
As  might  thy  brother,  yet  but  twelve  years  old ; 
Till,  when  thou  gain'st  the  strand,  he  draws  thee 

down 
And,  tossing  back  that  hair  the  foam-flakes  fleck, 
The  while  the  waters  still  its  fulness  drown. 
Through  thy  warm  lips,  with  greedy  lips  and  cold, 
He  drains  thy  life  in  one  delirious  thrill ; 
While  thy  hot  youth  slips  from  thee  as  a  dream, 
And  his  swift  veins  thy  tingling  blood-drops  fill: 
His  years  renew  their  strength,  and  thou  art  old. 

Once,  in  the  time  long  past,  across  the  waste 
There  wandered  to  our  door  an  aged  form, 
Who  entered  in,  his  shrivelled  limbs  to  warm. 
And  sat  him  down  and  stared  into  the  fire ; 


96  YOUTH'S  TRAGEDY 

Nor  spake,  nor  heard,  nor  any  food  would  taste. 

My  sister  watched  him,  drawn  by  some  desire, 

And  spake  not  either;  for  her  Love  was  lost, 

Who  had  essayed,  that  March,  the  Roost  to  cross 

In  such  a  boat  as  this. 

When,  on  a  sudden,  met  their  eyes,  and  she 

Fell  at  his  feet,  and  knew  that  it  was  he, 

And  clung  to  him  in  one  long  soul-wrung  kiss. 

Nine  moons  he  lingered  with  us  and  was  gone. 
Past  the  dark  gates  and  the  last  whelming  flood. 
And  still  I  hear  his  story  echoing  on. 
And  ever  see  his  haggard  face  and  wan. 
The  thin,  drawn  cheeks  and  lips  devoid  of  blood; 
And  oh,  my  sister's  features  haunt  me  yet. 
With  stricken  eyes  that  I  would  fain  forget ! 

On  a  dark  eve  in  March,  those  years  away, 

The  mist  closed  in,  as  it  is  closing  now, 

And  the  slack  tide  turned  north  into  the  bay, 

Meeting  the  sluggish  prow — 

[Pull  hard!  I  see  the  shadow  line  of  death, 

Where  the  gaunt  cliffs  peer  through  their  murky 

breath!]— 
And  swift  and  swifter  yet  his  boat  sped  on. 
As  drawn  in  his  despite  by  hands  unseen ; 
Until  he  needs  must  clutch  the  iron  shore. 


YOUTH'S  TRAGEDY  97 

And,  in  one  fleeting  breath,  the  boat  had  gone. 
And  naught  to  see  but  one  grey  waste  of  green. 
But  yet  above  the  broken  surges'  roar, 
Out  of  that  grim,  grey,  misty  void  of  fear, 
A  cry  of  long-drawn  terror  echoed  clear; 
And  half  within  the  billows'  ebb  and  flow, 
Held  down  by  one  gigantic  block  of  stone, 
A  child  he  saw  among  the  boulders  thrown. 
Full  fair  he  was,  and,  as  the  dying  glow 
Of  the  spent  fog-bound  mazes  of  the  West 
Suffused  the  golden  hair,  it  shone  again. 
And  flushed  the  skin's  bewilderment  of  snow. 
The  lips  were  wrought  with  unforgotten  pain, 
Yet  beauteous  still,  and  mutely  moving  slow 
They  spake  in  loveliness  their  dumb  request. 

He  turned  the  stone,  the  listless  burden  raised. 
And  chafed  the  limbs  and  smoothed  the  dripping 

hair, 
And   stanched   the   ruby   wound   the   rocks    had 

made. 
And  wondered  at  the  moulded  form  laid  bare, 
Beyond  the  grace  on  which  Narkissos  gazed, 
In  spell-bound  madness  of  remotest  time. 
Where  the  dim  pool  of  that  far  woodland  glade 
Mirrored  the  face  sublime. 


98  YOUTH'S  TRAGEDY 

Then  softly  bent  he  down  and  pressed  his  lips 
Upon  the  lashes  of  those  languid  eyes, 
Which  opened  dreamily,  with  strange  surprise, 
Blue,  bluer  than  the  blue  of  halcyon. 
They  peered  into  the  hollows  of  his  soul, 
Lit  by  the  burning  blue  of  their  behest, 
Flaming  about  his  heart,  and  drew  him  on 
With  a  wild  yearning  past  his  own  control 
That  whelmed  all  longings  of  his  mortal  mind-, 
Lost  in  the  dusky  past  and  far  behind. 

His  own  lips  found  those  witching  lips,  whose  kiss 
Sent  a  glad  tremor  as  of  sweetest  pain 
And  fired  his  being  with  a  nameless  joy 
That  seemed  to  him  as  countless  years  of  bliss. 
A  life-long  dreaming  trance  he  held  the  boy. 
Thralled  by  his  passionate  pity's  baneful  chain ; 
Then  the  kiss  chilled,  and  the  dull  present  stared 
Through  the  keen  pleasures  of  that  vanished  past : 
The  boy  was  gone ;  the  waves'  moan  held  the  shore ; 
Youth's  wasted  innocence  returned  no  more. 
Too  bitter-sweet  to  last. 

Bowed  by  decrepit  age,  he  slowly  fared 

Up  the  sheer  steep,  beyond  the  waters'  roar. 

Haggard,  with  trembling  steps,  and  lean  and  hoar. 


YOUTH'S  TRAGEDY  99 

So  through  the  darkening  hills  he  wandered  slow, 
Past  the  black,  troubled  burn,  whose  murmuring 

flow 
Rang  the  sad  cadence  of  Youth's  olden  woe : 
'  Lost  long  ago,  lost  long  and  long  ago.' 

But  Hakon,  hist,  in  vain,  alas,  in  vain 

We  strive !     The  cloud-wreaths  part  and  close. 

And,  through  the  rifted  veiling  of  the  rain. 

As  the  return  of  long  awaited  pain 

That  the  poor  heart  but  too  minutely  knows, 

I  saw  him  stand. — Winds  from  the  North,  awake ! 

Blow  hard  and  harder  yet!     Lash  the  dark  sea! 

Strain  on  the  sheet  and  lift  us  on  our  way ! 

What   though   the   following   horses   seethe  and 

break ; 
Better  broach  to,  out  in  the  open  deep, 
And  in  the  icy  waters  fall  asleep, 
Than  live  to  touch  his  hands  and  fall  his  prey ! 
They  rise  not;  toil  no  more;  the  die  is  cast. 
The  battle  lost ;  the  dark  tide  works  its  will — 
A    will    it    knows    not.      Ah,   that    sound    once 

more ! 
The  stream  flows  swifter  still : 
See  the  small  fulmar  gliding  by  the  mast ; 
The  skua  pursues  him  from  the  southern  hill. 


100  YOUTH'S  TRAGEDY 

Nay,    look !      Lo,   there    he    stands    upon    the 

shore, 
Divinely  fair,  and  oh,  the  song  he  sings : 
Of  hopes  to  be  and  dim  remembered  things. 
And  winds  our  timid  yearnings  o'er  and  o'er! 
No  mortal  yet  hath  seen  a  lovelier  blue 
Than  watches  us,  inimitably  rare, 
And  holds  us  till  the  beating  pulse  stands  still ; 
Nor  ever  waited  on  diviner  lips, 
Carven  with  love's  infinitude  of  skill, 
Whence  the  wild  rhapsody  unmeasured  slips  ; 
Nor  matched  the  shifting  colour  of  that  hair 
And  the  bright  skin,  flushed  with  a  richer  hue 
Than  graced  the  fairest  of  earth's  fairest  fair. 
Let  us  draw  near  and  feast  our  hungry  eyes 
And  gaze  in  mutest  wonder,  which  is  best, 
On  the  white  form  of  yon  upraised  arm, 
The  dainty  throat  and  softly  heaving  breast, 
And  drink  our  fill  of  the  ethereal  charm 
In  the  light  feet  and  limbs  of  subtlest  guise. 

'  Who  sails  afar  on  some  remotest  tide 

And    loses    touch    with    all    he    holds    most 
dear. 
Who  bides,  and  wistful  eyes  the  waters  wide, 
Draw  near  and  soothe  thy  weary  heart,  draw 
near. 


YOUTH'S  TRAGEDY  loi 

*Who  sails  afar  while  all  he  loves  is  lost — 

For  some  prove  false  and  some  with  Death 
have  wed — 
Who  sets  his  hope,  where  hope  is  tempest-tossed, 
Draw  near  and  learn   the  lay  that  wakes  the 
dead. 

*  Who  sails  afar  and  finds  that  hope  is  vain, 

That  Heaven  has  lost  the  key  that  turns  the 
past ; — 
Thy  Love  hath  loved  another? — hear  the  strain 
That  ravels  out  the  years  behind  thee  cast. 

*  Who  sails  in  doubt,  nor  trusts  the  grave's  deceit, 

Yet  sighs  beneath  life's  unrelaxing  bond, — 
Faith's   phantoms   mock    the   weary   traveller's 
feet — 
Draw  near  with  clearer  sight  and  look  beyond.' 

Ah!     Hark  the  song!     He  sings  a  fuller  hope 
Than  the  waste  cravings  'neath  this  wind-swept 

cope. 
Oh,  wildering  dream  beside  the  untoward  sea, 
How  shall  I  live  if  I  live  not  with  thee  ? 


Child,  I  am  coming. — Is  thy  song  for  me? 

LONDON 


102  SIXTEEN 


SIXTEEN 

IS  he  a  god,  with  his  thoughts  aflame, 
His  words  of  power  and  his  fathomless  eyes  ? 
Is  he  a  god,  with  his  wonderful  dreams 

From  a  land  of  lambent  and  luminous  skies? 

He  is  a  man  with  his  masterful  lips, 

His  eager  hands  and  his  strong  white  arms. 

He  is  a  man,  as  she  kisses  his  brow 

And  binds  with  the  spell  of  her  guileless  charms. 

Why  did  he  love  her,  why  did  she  come 
So  long  before  me  and  hold  him  fast, — 

She  with  her  beautiful  form  and  face 

And  sensitive  spirit  and  eyes  downcast? 

Stooped  he  and  kissed  me  as  I  were  a  child ; 

As  grave  and  calm  as  the  wind  in  Spring. 
Reaching  my  heart,  it  has  burned  my  soul. 

That  passionless  kiss,  with  its  unknown  sting. 

Would  I  not  give  him  all  that  I  am. 
Would  I  not  love  him  even  as  she? 

How  should  the  Fates  devise  a  doom 
That  cannot  be  cleared  in  eternity  ? 


SIXTEEN  103 

She  has  been  first,  and  she  stole  from  me ; 

Nor  would  it  be  other  if  she  were  I. 
Such  is  the  justice  of  Fate's  decree: 

That  one  must  prosper  and  one  must  die! 

What  is  for  me,  whom  he  kissed  as  a  child — 
A  girl  too  youthful  to  heed  or  to  know? 

Naught  is  to  seek,  naught  is  to  dream. 
Naught  is  to  come  as  the  long  years  flow. 

OFF  NEWFOUNDLAND 


104  MENALKAS 


MENALKAS 


MENALKAS,  hast  thou  come?     Sit  here  with 
me, 
Where  Lykabettos  overlooks  the  town, 
And  Athens  spreads  between  us  and  the  sea, 
In  all  her  wealth  of  marbled  pageantry, — 
The  peerless  mistress  *  of  the  violet  crown.' 


The  same  and    not  the  same:    the    same   proud 
height 

Rising  above  the  city  as  of  old. 
The  same  familiar  temples,  gleaming  white, 
The  same  conception  of  the  infinite, 

By  men  rich  wrought  in  ivory  and  gold. 

The  same  unharvested,  unkindly  sea, 

Dark,  dark,  wine-dark,  down  in  its  unplumbed 
deep. 
Which  Homer  imaged  in  his  minstrelsy; 
Yet,  on  its  surface,  laughter-lit  and  free, 

Where  emerald  and  turquoise  lightly  leap. 


MENALKAS  105 

'Twas    there    our    fathers    fought,    where    Ajax' 
isle 

Lifts  the  long  line  of  its  low-lying  hills, 
And  dreams  of  Salamis  our  hearts  beguile, 
And  still  we  see  them  throng  the  narrow  mile, — 

On,  on  they  press, — till  pride  our  spirit  fills. 

But  ah,  Menalkas,  these  have  passed  away, 

The  ancient  times  are  gone  and  all  is  change ; 
Here,  witless  of  the  past,  fools  praise  to-day, 
Or  there,  more  wise,  would  fain  arrest  decay. 
Yet    all    things    flow,   and    each    is    passing 
strange. 

Yea,  all  things  flow,  yet,  in  the  ceaseless  stream 

Of  varying  form,  much  were  it  ill  to  lose ; 
And  many  a  vision  in  an  outworn  dream 
Still  holds  a  magic  in  its  subtle  gleam, 

More    splendid    than    the    actual    things    we 
choose. 

Menalkas,  with  the  beautiful  dark  eyes 

And  godlike  form,  surpassing  Nireus'  grace, 
That  all  in  the  palaistra  far  outvies. 
Where  gather  boys  in  beauteous  exercise 
And  in  a  web  of  wonder  interlace. 


io6  MENALKAS 

Menalkas,  hearken.     Not  too  much  to  these 
Achievements  of  our  later  age  give  heed: 
Our  wealth  amassed  and  longer  hours  of  ease, 
The  light  sensations  that  the  gay  crowd  please — 
These  things  are  not  the  things  of  life  indeed. 

Heron  may  boast  that  in  the  pent-up  steam 

He   gains   a   boundless   force   to   make   man's 
slave ; 

But  power  and  force  are  but  an  idle  dream, 

And  veritably  nothing  will  they  seem 
When  Hades  summons  us  to  fill  a  grave. 

Nor  in  the  deftness  of  thy  hands  alone 

Exult,  nor  in  the  swiftness  of  thy  feet, 
Nor  in  the  loveliness  that  is  thine  own. 
Unrivalled  now,  and  heretofore  unknown — 

These  too  will  pass,  these  too  with  death  shall 
meet. 

For  we  are  more  than  low  material  things. 
And  more  than  such  our  destiny  sublime ; 

And,  though  round  these  the   dull  heart  dearly 
clings, 

Far  on  a  flight  of  wondrous  spirit-wings 

The  fates  decree  that  we  shall  distance  time. 


MENALKAS  107 

Out  from  the  primal  Essence  have  we  sped, 

Profound,  immense,  unknowable,  and  strange, 
Transcending,  as  Xenophanes  hath  said, 
All  human  concepts — hands,  or  feet,  or  head. 
Or  voice,  or  all  within  our  mortal  range. 

And   thou   dost  ask,   thou,  with    the   searching 
eyes : — 

'But  how  shall  we,  if  such  indeed  be  God, 
We,  with  the  fleshly  frame  and  mortal  guise. 
Hold  commune  with  a  power  that  never  dies. 

Or  gain  a  road  that  feet  have  never  trod  ? ' 

Yea,  hold,  the  question  grows  importunate. 

And  in  its  answer  lies  our  only  hope, 
Else,  sinking,  must  we  lose  our  high  estate 
And  with  the  lower  beasts  our  fortunes  mate, 
And,  having  spurned   the  light,  all    darkling 
grope. 

Ah,  lovely  boy,  thy  bright  appealing  gaze. 
Alert  to  catch  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
Thine  eager  lips,  and  wonder  and  amaze 
At  all  the  curious  world's  unriddled  ways, 

Call    back    my    youth    from   the    relinquished 
years : 


To8  MENALKAS 

And  once  again — athirst  with  strenuous  zeal 

Of  boyish  confidence  and  high  intent — 
I  fain  would  fathom  what  the  fates  conceal, 
And  all  the  secrets  of  the  world  reveal, 
Displayed  in  one  victorious  argument. 

This  is  the  breath  divine :  the  wish  to  know. 

The  fervent  and  insatiable  desire 
To  seek  and  hold  each  new  thing  ere  it  go, 
And  fan  the  flame  of  knowledge  till  it  grow 

Into  an  inextinguishable  fire. 

God  is  a  spirit  and  we  are  but  flesh ; 

Yet,  even  as  Pythagoras  hath  told, 
Do  we,  within  the  fleshly  frame,  enmesh 
A  spiritual  shape,  still  breathing  fresh 

The     fragrance     caught     from     the    diviner 
mould. 

God  is  a  spirit;  how  can  we  attain 

To  that  sublime  communion  unalloyed — 
The  mystic  union  unto  which  we  strain 
With  voiceless  utterance  of  eager  pain 

And    striving    hands    that    reach     into    the 
void? 


MENALKAS  109 

So  unattainable,  so  far  away, 

Supernal  and  inimitably  great, 
Whom  we  may  love,  as  infant  children  may 
The  wise  controller  of  their  simple  day, 

With  whom  they  cannot  yet  communicate. 

And  God  is  wise,  with  wisdom  absolute; 

Yet  of  his  wisdom  gives  us  each  some  seed, 
That  in  our  being  quickens  and  takes  root, 
And  may,  with  utmost  effort,  bear  the  fruit 

That  solves  the  mystery  of  our  deepest  need. 

So  the  All-Wise,  as  wisdom's  stores  increase 
And    knowledge    spreads,   grows    nearer    than 
before ; 
The  soul  from  fleshly  trappings  finds  release 
In  close  ecstatic  commune  of  strange  peace, 
When,  poised  on  knowledge'  pinions,  it  can  soar. 

To    learn,    to    know,    to    grasp    each    sovereign 
truth — 

This  is  the  soul's  escape  from  carnal  ties ; 
This  is  to  consummate  the  dreams  of  youth; 
This  is  to  be  at  one  with  God,  in  sooth — 

The  All-Pervading,  infinitely  wise. 


no  MENALKAS 

This  is  the  secret — see  thou  hold  it  fast : 

Soul  speaks  to  soul  when  knit  by  common  ties ; 
And  if  thou  wouldst  hold  commune  with  the  vast 
Eternal  Power  who  shaped  the  distant  past 
And  holds  all  time,  here,  in  truth's  self,  it  lies. 

Menalkas,  thou  art  gone,  and  here  with  me 

Leavest  a  light  that  nothing  can  dispel. 
Knowledge  is  much,  yet,  as  I  think  on  thee, 
In  all  thy  wondrous  youthful  symmetry, 
Surely  in  beauty  God  is  gained  as  well? 

ISLE  OF  FOULA 


BEAUTY  III 


BEAUTY 

'^T  7HEN  Terror  folds    his  wings    and  Fear   is 

'  ^  ended 

And  the  clear  call  for  courage  is  no  more ; 
When  the  last  sick  and  sorrowing  are  tended 

And  pain  and  poverty  and  dearth  are  o'er; 

When  Hope,  long  languishing,  has  reached  fruition 
And  Faith's  fierce  fight  with  Doubt  is  waged  and 
won, 

And  Mercy,  Help,  and  Pity  cease  their  mission 
Because  all  Body's  sins  and  wants  are  done; 

When  all  our  feeble  moral  precepts  vanish. 
Mean  in  their  outlook,  narrow  in  their  kind. 

Confined  to  mere  material  needs,  that  banish 
All  loftier  strivings  of  the  immortal  mind, — 

Then,  and  not  till  then,  shall  our  life  have  meaning; 

Then,  and  not  till  then,  we  begin  to  live. 
And  from  these  bodies'  aims  our  spirits  weaning. 

First  learning  to  behold,  then  learn  to  give. 


112  BEAUTY 

There  in  the  twilight  of  the  early  morning, 
Filmed  with  faint  flushes  of  the  sunrise-fire, 

We  learn  the  marvel  of  the  world's  adorning 
Or  in  the  flaming  of  the  dead  day's  pyre, — 

So  glorious,  so  full  of  coloured  gleaming, 
Yet  for  mere  limbs'  advantage  not  designed. 

Nor  bountiful,  nor  just,  nor  helpful  seeming — 
Useless — and  therefore  of  a  nobler  kind, 

Great  in  itself  and  grand ;  though  we  no  longer 
In  this  small  planet  play  our  petty  part. 

Something  to  which  we  rise,  sublimer,  stronger 
Than  aught   we   seek,  to   please   the   mortal 
heart. 

Up  to  its  level  therefore  we,  aspiring, 

Shall  soar,  nor  seek  to  bring  it  to  our  own ; 

For  this  is  Beauty  :  here  is  Art's  desiring — 
That  which  is  perfect  in  itself  alone. 

Or,  as  we  stand  before  God's  last  creation. 
The  human  form,  all  naked  and  laid  bare, 

We  learn  to  gaze  in  holy  veneration, 
Lost  in  admiring  wonder  and  despair. 


BEAUTY  113 

Thus  we  BEHOLD,  and,  stung  by  fervid  rapture 
And  dear  desire  that  dreams  it  will  create, 

From  the  suggestive  forms  of  nature  capture 
The  hint  of  shapes  we  fain  would  consummate  : 

So  the  poietes,  artist,  the  creator, 

Transcending  far  our  flesh-bound  moral  aims, 
Shall  GIVE  a  gift  that  is  supremely  greater, — 

An  end  itself,  that  meets  no  outer  claims. 

Humbled,  at  length,  with  selfless  admiration, 
Our  souls,  long  dead  in  things  of  use,  find  birth, 

And  in  the  spell  of  Beauty's  contemplation 
Know  that  the  meek  alone  inherit  earth. 

S.S.    'VICTORIAN,' 
MID-ATLANTIC 


114  THE  GUELDER  ROSES 


THE   GUELDER   ROSES 

'IVJEATH  sunny  skies  I  glided  on, 
^  ^      Where  dazzling  waters  dancing  shone 

And  sang  their  tuneful  melody ; 
The  whispering  rushes  o'er  me  swayed 
And  on  my  lips  soft  fingers  laid : 
I  gently  dipped  the  paddle  blade 

That  drowned  the  stream's  low  rhapsody. 

My  slight  craft  drifted  slow  along; 
Whelmed  in  a  world  of  fairy  song, 

From  every  marge  re-echoing. 
An  iris,  swinging  to  and  fro, 
Sang  with  the  lilies  down  below — 
An  elfin  round  no  mortals  know 

Harmoniously  following. 

Lightly  I  skimmed  the  burning  tide 
Till  cool  shades  crept  from  either  side, 
Where  willows  leaned  in  idleness. 


THE  GUELDER  ROSES  115 

Within  dark  pools  I  saw  them  peer 
And  trail  their  leaves  through  ripplings  clear ; 
When  strange  new  music  met  my  ear 
And  held  me  by  its  gentleness. 

I  moored  the  boat  beside  the  bank 
And  eagerly  the  music  drank 

In  wonder,  listening  pensively  ; 
Then  lifted  up  my  head  to  see, 
The  guelder  roses  watching  me. 
Who  marvelled  what  their  song  might  be 

Reiterating  plaintively. 

And  while,  entranced,  I  listened  there. 
They  answered  my  unuttered  prayer 

And  breathed  on  my  mortality ; 
Till  all  the  unknown  tongue  grew  plain. 
The  meaning  of  their  varying  strain 
Where  joy  is  interfused  with  pain 

In  limitless  diversity. 

Life's  olden  symphonies  they  sang. 
Imbued  with  newer  hopes,  that  rang 

Through  deeper  chords  of  agony. 
Where  otherwordly  measures  steal 
From  lands  which  kindlier  dreams  reveal. 
And  woes  of  striving  discord  heal 

In  this  rude  world's  cacophony. 


ii6  THE  GUELDER  ROSES 

There  sleeps  all  passionate  regret, 
With  lustrous  lashes,  gleaming  wet, 

Worn  by  long  watching  wearily 
For  one  whose  footsteps  ne'er  will  make 
The  unforgetful  silence  break. 
Nor  Lethe's  self  avail  to  slake 

The  drouth,  consuming  steadily. 

A  boon  the  roses  gave  that  day 
To  one  whose  solitary  way 

Had  missed  the  haunts  of  happiness  — 
The  gift  to  hear  the  flowers  sing, 
And,  through  their  mystic  message,  bring 
An  anodyne  to  dull  the  sting 

Of  life's  unending  loneliness. 

The  East  Wind  blew  across  to  me 
The  last  stars  falling  from  the  tree — 

Envoys  of  worlds  most  fanciful. 
Still  in  the  silence  of  the  night 
They  sing,  and  visions  infinite 
Drift  down  the  vistas  of  my  sight, 

Immeasurably  pitiful. 

Sweet  children  of  demurest  air. 
Pale  blossoms  woven  through  your  hair, 
On  shifting  rainbows  gathering, 


THE  GUELDER  ROSES  117 

Endowed  with  love's  engaging  mien 
And  crowding  lips  that  toward  me  lean 
Through  little  hands,  outstretched  between, 
In  sympathetic  wondering. 

Children,  ye  cannot  understand. 
Floating  in  that  enchanted  land, 

The  pathos  of  our  helplessness; 
And  yet  your  winsome  faces  bear, 
Though  ye  yourselves  are  unaware, 
The  antidote  of  our  despair, — 

Exorcists  of  our  hopelessness. 

OXFORD 


ii8  CHRISTINE 


CHRISTINE 

It  is  rarely  that  a  poem  is  founded  on  an  actual  fact  or  personality, 
but  the  little  girl  to  whom  these  lines  are  dedicated  was  a  fascinating 
eleven  year  old  maiden,  whose  charm  intensified  those  thoughts  and 
feelings  with  which  in  after  years  we  approach  the  child.  There  is  in 
childhood  a  something,  whose  power  of  attraction  is  well-nigh  irre- 
sistible, which  at  the  same  time  we  feel  it  would  nevertheless  be 
sacrilege  to  touch.  Small  wonder  that  we  expect  to  find  such  as  the 
denizens  of  Heaven,  and  are  confident  that  the  unchildlike  have  no 
part  therein ! 


D 


EMURE  and  silent  fairy-queen,  Christine, 
What  secrets  lie  those  lips  between  ? 
What  are  the  thoughts,  too  deep  to  rise, 
Beneath  the  mystery  of  those  eyes 
That  baffle  all  my  enterprise,  Christine  ? 

We  strain  to  catch  the  heavenly  sheen,  Christine, 

That  only  childhood  keeps  serene. 

And  spend  our  passionate  longing's  cry 

Calling  from  out  an  empty  sky 

The  phantom  of  a  day  gone  by,  Christine. 

I  stole  a  kiss  those  lips  between,  Christine, 
You  deemed  it  was  a  theft,  I  ween. 

But  it  was,  oh,  so  sweet  and  pure. 

And  I  have  stored  it  safe  and  sure 

'Mid  dreams  that  die  not  but  endure,  Christine. 


CHRISTINE  119 

I  know  you  know  not  what  I  mean,  Christine, 
You  are  too  fresh  and  fair,  my  queen ; 
Beneath  our  sullied  atmosphere 
The  dew-drop  of  the  springing  year 
Lies    on    your    whiteness    round    and     clear, 
Christine. 

Graced    with    the    grace     of    childhood's    mien, 

Christine, 
Twelve  years  on  earth  you  have  not  seen ; 

Yet  would  you  your  own  fate  fulfil, 

And  be  no  longer  treated  still 

As  a  mere  child  against  your  will,  Christine. 

Had  I  the  magic  sword  and  keen,  Christine, 
To  cleave  the  fates  and  intervene. 

None  older  would  you  ever  grow. 

But  linger  alway  looking  so; 

Yet  it  is  selfish — and  I  know,  Christine. 

So  fresh  and  pure  and  bright  and  clean,  Christine, 
Your  power  you  do  not  know,  wee  queen; 
You  tear  our  hearts  out  in  our  pain, 
Striving  to  touch  youth's  charm  again, 
And  the  impossible  attain,  Christine. 


120  CHRISTINE 

We    search    the    dark    world's    wide    demesne, 
Christine ; 

Yet  fondest  hopes  had  ne'er  foreseen 
The  fragile  charm  that  you  display. 
We  hold  you  fast,  then  stand  away 
In  yearning  wonder  and  dismay,  Christine. 

Vain  was  the  broidered  gabardine,  Christine, 
And  gifts  rich  wrought  with  damascene : 

What  offering  could  be  meet  for  thee  ? 

Yet  what  a  guerdon  falls  to  me — 

To  fashion  aught  thine  eyes  may  see,  Christine. 

You  bade  me  no  good-bye  yestreen,  Christine. 

Why  did  you  hide  from  me  unseen  ? 

Dost  think  we  cannot  feel  these  things — 
Rare  rays  of  sunlight  taking  wings, 
While    the     old    gloom    around    us    clings, 
Christine  ? 

Such  knowledge  may  you  never  glean,  Christine, 

This  craving  for  what  has  not  been. 
Grief  lies  about  us  everywhere, 
A  touch,  a  turn,  and  it  lies  bare. 
The  old  wound  opens  unaware,  Christine. 


CHRISTINE  121 

God  shield  you,  sweetest  queen,  Christine, 
And  keep  for  me  your  memory  green : 
Your  soft  hair  blows  about  my  face 
And  cools  each  weary,  burning  place, 
My  life  still  haunted  by  your  grace,  Christine. 

STOCKTON-ON-TEES 


122  THE  ENCHANTRESS 


THE   ENCHANTRESS 
I 

DESIRE 

SHE  was  so  fair,  and  oh,  her  eyes  were  blue 
That  gazed,  with  soul-spent  longing,  through 
the  haze 
Of  silvery  shimmerings  in  the  noontide  blaze. 
How  fierce  the  naked  spell  wherewith  they  drew  ! 

And  he  was  fair,  the  god  of  lissome  thew 

And  youthful  heat,  drawn   downward  by  that 

gaze 
To  the  dull  earth's  routine  of  nights  and  days 

From  the  eternal  glory  that  he  knew. 

From    him,  as   through   the   ethereal   vaults   he 
passed, 
His  deathless  godhead  melted  into  mist. 
Till  round  her  neck  mere  mortal  arms  he  cast; 
While  her  whole  soul,  with  overstrained  desire, 
Slipped  in  a  burning  vapour  as  she  kissed. 
Leaving  her  soulless  and  consumed  by  fire. 


THE  ENCHANTRESS  123 


II 
ANNIHILATION 

So,  less  than  mortal  man — for  man  at  least 
Hath  still  some  share  in  immortality — 
He  stood   there  doomed  to  more  than  death's 
decree ; 

Yet  drank  he  madly  at  love's  golden  feast. 

And  still  his  passionate  purpose  loud  increased 
Such  utter  loveliness  unveiled  to  see ; 
Yet,  as  the  day  waned,  never  answered  she, 

Until  at  length  his  striving  utterance  ceased. 

Wistful  he  watched,  the  while  his  life  drew  back 
And  drifted  to  the  nothing  and  the  dark. 
Not  even  death  was  his ;  nor  sign  nor  mark, 
Faint  traced  on  earth,  in  Hades,  or  the  skies — 
Blank  utmost — nay,  nor  grief  nor  torturing  rack. 
And  lo,  she  sat  and  stared  with  vacant  eyes. 


124  THE  ENCHANTRESS 

III 
DOOM 

There,  on  the  bitter  ground,  white  cold  he  lay, 
Who  once  had  been  a  god  and  still  was  fair, 
Olympian-thewed,  with  mighty  form  laid  bare, 

Flushed  faintly  with  the  sunset's  last  estray. 

Then  from  the  West  the  wind  awoke  to  play. 
And  whirled  the  rifted  rain-clouds  through  the 

air, 
And  drove  the  drops  through  all  his  gleaming 
hair — 
A  fateful  presage  of  his  swift  decay. 

So  she  rose  up  and  laughed,  and  down  the  stream, 
Drearly  the  hollow  echo  mocking  sped  ; 
So  strange  a  thing — to  feel  her  soul  had  fled 
And  yet  for  ever  live  in  deathless  guise, 
Void  of  all  purpose,  aimless  as  a  dream. 

And  still  she  stands  and  stares  with  vacant 
eyes. 

AVENBURY 


BITTER-SWEET  125 


BITTER-SWEET 

O  CHILD,  with  dreamland  glory  in  thy  hair, 
Soft   blown   about   thy  brows  serene    and 
white. 
What  are  those  memories  interwoven  there 
That  burn  into  my  soul  with  tense  delight? 

Eyes  that   I  love  look  through  those   wondrous 
eyes, 

Lips  I  have  kissed  so  oft  are  in  thy  smile ; 
All  that  I  hold  most  dear  'neath  distant  skies. 

Thousands  of  leagues  afar,  is  here  awhile. 

And  yet  thou  art  thyself,  and  all  thine  own 

Thy  winsome  charm  and  strange,  alluring  mien  ; 

And  thus  thy  double  spell  is  o'er  me  thrown, 
And  in  thy  magic  world  thou  art  my  queen. 

Across  my  life,  storm-tossed  and  home  bereft. 
Fate  wafts  this  opening  rose  of  girlhood's  grace, 

And  in  Fate's  garden  not  a  bloom  is  left 

Worthy  by  thee  to  claim  the  humblest  place. 


126  BITTER-SWEET 

Thus,  child,  we  pass ;  out  of  the  dark  I  came 
And  back  into  the  dark  I  fade  and  go. 

All  things  once  more  will  be  for  you  the  same, 
But  for  myself  it  cannot  now  be  so  : 

Two  faces  evermore  for  me  will  blend ; 

The  world  can  never  be  the  same  again ; 
Thy  form  will  haunt  me  till  life's  farthest  end, 

Another  bitter-sweet  of  mystic  pain. 

And,  after  life  itself  has  spent  its  day, 
Is  there  no  hope  to  read  the  riddle  there. 

But  must  we  find  eternity's  vast  way 
A  second  maze  of  unexplained  despair? 

Ah,  child  of  beauty,  couldst  thou  grant  me  this  : 
Lift  up  thy  little  face  and  queenly  head, 

And  let  me  print  thereon  one  reverent  kiss. 
As  one  with  holy  awe  might  kiss  the  dead ! 

BAY  VIEW,   MICHIGAN 


THE  SONG  127 


THE   SONG 

'TiyflD  many  thoughts,  the  Mind  once  shadowed 
i-'-L     forth 

One,  that  amid  the  weaker  host  grew  strong; 
And  unto  this  the  Voice  gave  utterance, 

And  lo !  the  phantom  thought  became  a  song. 

The  Hand  that  served,  and  knew  that  yet  there 
stretched 

The  unending  cycle  of  the  eternal  years. 
Wrote  down  and  gave  it  immortality — 

'Tis  written — and  forgot — and  disappears. 

And  Mind  and  Voice  grew  tired  and  passed  away. 
Where  silence  holds  the  unjust  and  the  just. 

And  Hand,  that  once  was  Hand,  returned  again 
To  that  it  was  before,  and  fell  to  dust. 

But  afterward  men  found  the  song  and  sang. 
And  sang  it  well  or  ill,  or  right  or  wrong; 

Yet,  though  the  singer  sing  it  well  or  ill. 
Do  thou  forget  the  singing  in  the  song. 

EALING 


128  PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 


PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 

NO  *  love '  had  I  as  those  my  friends,  the  youths 
I  met  at  our  palaistra.     How  they  talked ! 
And  in  unguarded  moments  secrets  slipped, 
Or  one  unwittingly  would  hit  the  mark, 
And  at  some  name,  Praxinoe  or  the  like, 
The  fair  cheeks  reddened.     But  all  this  to  me 
Meant  nothing.     Nor  for  me  did  any  maid 
Blush  as  I  passed,  though  straightly  built  and  tall, 
Philistos,  son  of  Melanippides. 
And  swift  of  foot  was  I  beyond  my  peers ; 
Yea,  once  at  far  Olympia  was  I  crowned. 

But  on  a  day  I  sat  and  watched  the  games 
And  felt  a  shaft  that  stung  me  suddenly, 
And  knew  that  Eros  sent  it,  and  it  burned. 
Yet  'twas  a  vague,  indefinite  desire ; 
No  face  that  I  had  seen  came  hauntingly 
To  shape  itself  anew  before  mine  eyes. 
But  through  the  silence  of  the  vacant  night 
I  lay  and  tossed  and  wished  the  thing  might  be ; 
And  in  the  day  grew  moody,  and  forsook 
My  comrades,  and  would  walk  alone  and  grieve. 


PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA  129 

Because  I  had  no  '  love '  as  those  my  friends, 
The  youths  I  met  at  our  palaistra,  there, 
Hard  by  the  temple,  Aphrodite's  shrine ; 
Till  at  the  last  I  offered  daily  prayers 
Before  the  Sea-born  One,  that  she  might  hear 
And  rid  me  of  the  gnawing  at  the  heart 
And  leave  me  as  before. 

No  answer  came : 
Days  grew  to  months,  and  I  grew  lean  and  spare ; 
Until  one  eve,  as  Helios  passed  away 
Beneath  the  West,  with  all  his  panting  steeds, 
Whose  fiery  breath  incarnadined  the  heavens, 
I  saw,  within  the  passing  of  a  dream. 
The  radiant  grace  of  Aphrodite's  form, 
Who  stooped  and  whispered :  '  Come  to  me  my- 
self.' 
And  she  was  gone ;  and  all  the  livelong  night 
I  lay  and  pondered  what  the  vision  meant. 
But  ere  the  dawning  strenuously  resolved 
To  journey  north  to  Mount  Olympos  straight, 
And  for  myself  behold  what  things  might  be 
On  those  great  heights  of  limitless  renown. 

So  forth  I  fared ;  and  as  day  followed  day. 
Footsore  and  weary,  travel-stained,  forspent, 


130  PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 

Somehow,  I  know  not  how,  my  heart  was  raised 
From  out  its  sadness.     Kindly  Hope  once  more, 
Of  which  old  Pindar  sings,  renewed  my  strength. 
I  gained  at  last  the  very  steeps  themselves. 
And  climbed  among  the  sharp  and  cruel  crags, 
And  fell  and  rose  again,  and  toiled  and  strained. 
Until  I  reached  the  snow  and  slippery  rocks. 
Then  as  by  miracle  I  struggled  on, 
Escaping  death,  but  bruised  and  wounded  sore, 
And  found  myself  outside  the  gate  of  heaven, 
Wrought  all  of  bronze,  with  marble  porticos. 
And  entered  in  and  found  my  goddess  there. 

Oh,  golden  was  her  laughter,  gold  her  hair, 
And  blue  her  deathless  eyes  as  from  the  north ! 
The  Knidian  goddess,  that  Praxiteles 
With  cunning  hands  most  deftly  wrought,  would 

seem 
Beside  her  but  a  rough-hewn  shapeless  mass. 
And  on  her  right  stood  Love,  so  slim  and  tall, 
O'ertopping  just  her  shoulder  white  and  bare. 
His  eyes  unbound,  and  round  about  his  head 
A  gleaming  fillet  made  of  wild  desire ; 
While  in  his  eyes  the  love-light  fiercely  burned, 
Calling  to  my  remembrance  that  fair  boy, 
Pantarkes,  who  once  gained  the  wrestling  match. 


PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA  131 

And  Pheidias  fashioned  on  the  throne  of  Zeus  ; 
But  all  the  godhead  shone  in  every  limb. 
And  in  his  presence,  through  my  tingling  blood, 
There  pulsed  the  throbbings  of  undying  love. 

Then,  as  I  stood  within  the  brazen  gates. 
She  came  toward  me,  and  her  lovely  hand 
She  softly  passed  throughout  my  curling  hair, 
And  gently  pressed  my  forehead  back  and  spake 
In   mellow   words,  and   asked :     *  What   wouldst 

thou,  child?' 
But  I  could  only  gaze  upon  her  face 
And   weep.      Then,   as    she    looked    at    me    and 

smiled, 
A  strange,  sad  pity  on  those  wondrous  brows, 
My  lips  found  speech  and  all  my  heart  its  need. 

*  Give  me,'  I  prayed — although  I  knew  not  why 
My  heart  thus  yearned — 'give  me  no  lady  proud. 
But  one  still  innocent,  and  let  her  years 
Number  the  nights  the  perfect  moon  has  seen 
From  new  moon  to  the  full,  and  let  her  have 
Not  knowledge,  but  the  will  to  know,  and  eyes 
Like  Love's  eyes,  luminous  with  burning  fire.' 

Then  Aphrodite  raised  her  queenly  head 
And  said:  *I  know  of  such  an  one,  and  she, 
For  the  great  love  I  bear  thee,  shall  be  thine. 
And  I  shall  give  her  unto  thee  myself.' 


132  PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 

So  spake  she,  and  then  passed  away ;  but  Love 
Remained ;  and  he  and  I  were  left,  we  two, 
Alone  on  heaven's  door-sill,  gazing  down 
At  the  great  world  with  all  its  care  and  woe. 
Then  on  my  knee  he  laid  his  hand  and  said: 
'  Lift  up  thy  face,  and  stretching  forth  thine  arms, 
Let  loose  thy  dreaming  soul  until  it  sink 
Below  the  secret  waters  of  mine  eyes.' 
And  so  I  placed  my  arms  above  his  arms, 
And  on  his  supple  shoulders  laid  my  hands, 
And  gazed  into  those  deeps,  and  there  beheld 
What  never  mortal  eye  had  seen  before, 
Nor  ever  mortal  eye  shall  see  again. 
And  drew  from  them  their  spell,  and  learned  to 

love 
With  love  that  loves  and  never  can  grow  old. 
That  neither  hate  nor  scorn,  nor  cold  neglect. 
Nor  any  passing  of  the  years  can  change. 
And,  as  I  looked  upon  his  perfect  form 
With  all  its  rippled  modelling,  I  felt 
That  I,  in  turn,  drew  all  about  myself 
A  beauty  as  the  beauty  of  a  god — 
A  lesser  god,  yet  far  transcending  man. 

I  cannot  tell  how  long  the  time  that  passed. 
But  at  the  end  he  kissed  me  on  the  lips — 


PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA  133 

The  god   himself — and  thrilled  me   through   and 

through ; 
Then,  pressing  both  his  hands  upon  my  heart, 
He  bowed  his  head,  and  breathed  across  my  face 
A  fragrant  breath,  and  gave  immortal  life, 
If  I  but  kept  the  bidding  of  the  gods 
And  never  sought  but  what  was  beautiful. 
And,  high  of  soul,  ne'er  let  my  courage  fail. 

He  rose,  and  left  me  sitting  dazed  and  still — 
A  moment  and  no  more ;  for  through  the  gate 
Came  Aphrodite,  leading  by  the  hand 
The  fairest  daughter  of  the  sons  of  men, 
Neaira,  daughter  of  Alkinoos. 
And  softly  fell  her  name  upon  my  ears — 
Neaira — as  some  sighing  summer  wind. 
She  ran  to  Love,  and  hung  about  his  neck, 
The  sweetest  flower  of  girlhood's  innocence ; 
But  Love  laughed  gently,  and  his  mother  came 
And  took  the  child,  and  brought  her  unto  me 
That  I  might  see  how  perfect,  past  compare 
She  was.     And  now  may  fate  avert  from  me 
All  fell  mischance,  for  unto  me  she  seemed 
More  beautiful  than  Aphrodite's  self. 
Because,  with  all  the  beauty  of  the  one, 
She  had  the  tender  innocence  of  youth. 


134  PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 

But  Aphrodite  read  my  thoughts  and  smiled, 
And  drew  the  child  toward  her,  till  she  leaned 
'Gainst  Aphrodite's  bosom  ;  and  the  twain 
Faced  me,  until  I  knew  not  how  to  live, 
So  tense  the  strain  of  undiluted  joy. 

But,  as  the  night  hard  follows  on  the  day. 
Within  those  truthful  azure  eyes  I  glanced 
And  saw  she  shrank  from  me  and  loved  me  not. 
Nor  ever  would,  for  all  I  might  foretell. 
Then  back  I  turned  to  Love,  and  prayed  that  he 
Would  take  away  his  fell  immortal  gift. 
That  I  might  die.     For  this  surpassed  the  pain 
Of  all  the  nameless  longing  on  the  earth. 
But  Love  regarded  me  with  speaking  eyes, 
A  sad  light  shining  in  their  glowing  depth. 
As  he  replied  to  me:  'Not  yet,  not  yet,' 
And  turned,  and  with  the  tenderest  of  farewells 
Passed  out  of  sight  adown  the  vaults  of  heaven. 

But  Aphrodite  came  and  sat  by  me. 
And  brought  the  maiden,  speaking  soft  to  her ; 
And,  as  we  viewed  the  teeming  land  and  sea 
And  all  the  sons  of  men  who  toiled  below, 
She  drew  the  maid  toward  her,  and  the  child 
On  Aphrodite's  arm  her  sweet  head  laid. 


PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA  135 

And  turning  half  toward  me  told  us  all : 

About  her  home  on  earth,  her  snow-white  doe, 

The  mighty  hound  that  ever  guarded  her 

Whenso  she  went  beyond  the  marble  halls 

On  some  dear  ministration  to  her  kin, 

The  woven  web  and  fancy's  broidered  scenes, 

The  garden  and  the  limpid  waterways, 

The  flowery  glade,  the  swiftly  darting  birds. 

Till  fain  she  would  be  back  again  at  home. 

And  Aphrodite  rose  and  took  her  hand 

And  led  her  by  a  secret  pathway  down. 

So  would  she  come  to  us  from  day  to  day, 
While  I  in  patience  waited  calmly  still, 
Doing  some  humble  service  for  the  gods 
About  the  echoing  porches  of  the  gate. 
In  hope  that  time  would  soon  accomplish  all. 

Till  on  a  day  I  heard  Love's  silvern  voice, 
That  told  me  how  the  fateful  hour  was  come 
When  she  would  now  be  weaned  from  her  home. 
And  through  the  morn  we  sat  there  as  before. 
While  bright  the  sunshine  danced  about  her  feet 
And  gentle  breezes  played  within  her  hair. 
I  told  her  of  the  glorious  deeds  of  old. 
And  watched  the  wonder  in  her  opening  eyes. 
And  listened  to  her  tales  of  maiden  joy. 


136  PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 

With  witching  skill  most  delicately  told. 

Yet,  though  the  child  would  talk,  she  loved  me 

not ; 
Nor,  when  at  eventide  she  bade  good-bye. 
And  passed  with  Aphrodite  to  her  rest 
Within  the  gates  of  heaven,  did  she  give 
The  least  return  to  all  my  gift  of  love. 

Then  were  the  gates  shut  fast,  and  I  was  left 
Alone  outside  and  watched  the  starry  dark, 
And  prayed  and  wept  by  turns,  and  all  my  heart 
Seemed  scorched  and  seared  with  blistering  fires 

of  love. 
So  next  day  and  the  next,  until  I  felt 
My  heart  was  dying  though  my  body  lived. 
Endowed  with  Love's  most  curst  immortal  gift: — 
Yet  man  knows  nothing  and  the  gods  know  all. 

One  day  came  Love  again,  whom  Zeus  had  sent, 
Unknown  to  me,  upon  a  fateful  quest. 
And  now,  the  quest  fulfilled,  we  met  once  more 
Before  the  mighty  brazen  gates,  and  Love 
Bade  me  take  courage ;  much  was  yet  undone — 
Deeds  to  achieve  upon  the  weary  earth 
Beyond  the  victory  I  won  that  day 
Where  far  Alpheios  flows  and  I  was  crowned. 


PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA  137 

And  then  he  took  my  hand,  and  thus  he  spake  : — 

'  There  lies  beyond  the  far  ^Egean  Sea, 

Where  Mysian  Hills  slope  downward  to  the  wave, 

A  hollow  pool,  with  moss-grown  rocks  begirt. 

Tall  ferns  lean  o'er  it ;  on  its  face  there  float. 

About  the  marge,  great  lilies,  luscious  white ; 

But  in  the  midst  can  no  man  fathom  it. 

'Tis  told  it  goeth  downward  to  the  sea, 

Where,  through  the  gloomy  caves,  Poseidon  roves. 

And  draws  its  store  from  some  eternal  spring. 

And    there    the    nymphs    have    ever    had    their 

haunts. 
And  there  Poseidon  grants  them  their  desires. 
The  entrance  lies  between  two  towering  crags, 
A  cleft,  so  narrow  few  may  enter  it, 
While  it  is  guarded  by  a  monstrous  shape, 
Part  human  and  part  beast,  that  sits  within. 
And  Hermes  tells  how  he  hath  heard  of  late 
That,  prisoned  there,  a  winsome  boy  abides. 
Like  unto  thee,  and  most  serenely  fair. 
Men  called  him  Hylas ;  and,  long  years  ago, 
The  nymphs,  for  all  his  beauty  and  his  grace. 
Him  stole  and  captive  held  by  magic  lures, 
And    by    strange    charms    have    kept    him    ever 

young,— 
An  agile  boy,  first  flushed  with  fires  of  youth. 


138  PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 

But  never  will  he  hearken  to  their  plaint 

And  join  them  in  their  circling  round  of  games, 

Stirring  the  glassy  surface  of  the  pool, 

But  sits  aloof  with  large  and  wistful  eyes. 

Him  mayst  thou  win,  and,  winning,  win  thyself; 

And,  having  proved  thyself,  must  win  her  love. 

Take  thou  the  road  past  Tempe  to  the  sea, 
And  there  await  the  coming  of  a  ship ; 
And  if  the  sails  be  bright  all  favours  thee. 
But  if  the  sails  be  dark  the  way  is  hard, 
And  thou  must  fear  Poseidon's  darkest  guile. 
Who  loves  not  her  who  from  the  foam  did  rise, 
Yet  loves  the  long-haired  water-nymphs  full  well. 
Though  even  then  it  may  be  thou  shalt  win. 
If  thou  hast  heart  surpassing  all  thy  peers.' 

He  spake,  and  led  me  down  the  secret  stair. 
And  fled,  while  I  turned  eastward  to  the  sea. 
And  there  I  gazed  all  day,  until  the  sun 
Stood  straight  behind  me :  and  there  was  no  wind. 
When,  far  across  the  deep,  with  swelling  sail, 
A  white  ship  hove  in  sight,  and  nearer  drew, 
And  all  my  heart  was  glad  to  see  her  come, 
Until  at  last  I  saw  her  spars  and  ropes, 
And  men  upon  her  decks,  and  heard  their  cry. 
When  lo,  away  beyond  her  I  beheld. 


PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA  139 

Under  the  windless  sky,  another  sail, 
Dark  as  the  coming  night  and  swifter  far. 
And  as  she  came  the  first  ship  passed  away, 
And  in  the  night,  just  as  the  moon  arose. 
The  dark  ship  came  to  land  beneath  my  feet. 

Yea,  dark  as  wrath  she  was,  a  thing  of  dread, 
Unnamed,  unspeakable,  and  horror-filled. 
I  called  to  mind  the  face  of  her  I  loved, 
And  all  afraid,  yet  fighting  terror  down — 
For,  even  thus,  it  might  be  I  should  win — 
Arose,  and  trembling  stood  upon  the  cliff. 

I  clambered  down,  and  found  a  little  boat. 
And  put  out  swiftly  till  I  reached  her  side. 
And  flung  a  rope  astern,  and  climbed  aboard. 
I   asked   them   whence   they   came   and   whither 

bound. 
But   no   man   answered,  though   they  looked   at 

me ; 
And  in  the  stillness  glided  we  away. 

Swarthy  they  were,  and  lean  and  lank  and  tall, 
And  moved  as  noiselessly  as  shades  in  dreams. 
And  silently  the  ropes  slipped  through  the  sheaves. 
She  seemed  as  though  she  moved  within  a  world 
Not  ours,  or  in  another  age  than  this. 
The  sport  of  wind  and  change  I  could  not  see. 


140  PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 

For  when  the  breeze  was  still  she  often  sped 

And  heeled  as  in  a  blast.     At  other  whiles 

She  sailed  against  the  wind,  or  yet  again, 

Upon  an  even  keel,  she  rode  at  rest, 

While    tempests    raged   and   lightning   filled   the 

skies. 
Yet  sometimes  would  her  fickle  mood  comply 
With  wind  and  wave  I  saw  before  my  eyes. 
Methought,  it  might  be,  she  was  sailing  now 
Within  the  weather,  long  since  passed  away, 
In  which  the  Argo  sought  the  golden  fleece. 
And  beautiful  Absurtos  met  his  death. 

Two  days  and  nights  I  sailed  with  that  strange 
crew, 
Nor  ever,  all  that  while,  they  heeded  me. 
Yet  filled  me  with  unutterable  fear, 
E'en  ere  I  guessed  the  thing  that  I  have  told 
Or  knew  the  things  I  yet  perforce  must  tell. 
Twice  had  the  dawn  appeared  since  we  set  sail, 
And  I  sat  gazing  by  the  dancing  prow 
While  one  by  one  they  drew  toward  the  stern. 
I  shuddered  as  I  watched  them  gathering  there 
In  that  still  silence,  aching  as  a  dream. 

Fierce  v/as  the  sun  and  hot  upon  the  deck. 
And  they  were  drinking  from  a  goodly  cup. 


PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA  141 

Rich  wrought  with  weird  devices  passing  strange, 

And,  in  unwonted  wise,  the  wine  within 

Seemed  glowing  as  I  dared  to  draw  anigh. 

The  cup  was  passing  round,  and  slowly  came 

Nearer,  and  nearer  still,  until  at  length 

It  was  at  hand,  within  my  very  reach; 

Nor  could  I  stay  myself,  but,  by  some  power 

Impelled  beyond  my  will,  I  made  as  though 

I  fain  would  drink,  and  asked  if  I  might  share. 

The  man  that  held  it  turned,  but  never  spake. 

And    stretched    his    long    gaunt    arm    and    bony 

hand. 
And  proffered  me  the  golden  cup  to  quaff. 
And  fixed  me  with  his  great  and  hollow  eyes. 
Low  sunk  and  cruel  in  a  face  like  death. 
And  I  was  held  as  by  some  awful  fate, 
And  could  not,  though  I  would,  restrain  my  hand, 
But  drank  the  rich  red  draught,  and  as  I  drank 
I  knew  the  look  and  knew  the  taste  was  blood. 

I  shrank  back  mazed  and  utterly  undone. 
They  moved  not ;   but  their  fierce  eyes  followed 

me. 
And,  though  I  hid,  I  saw  them  watching  still. 
Piercing  my  heart  right  through  the  very  boards. 
Then,  with  a  cry  that  wrung  my  inmost  soul, 


142  PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 

I  tried  to  call  the  vision  to  my  sight 

Of  that  sweet  maiden  on  the  heights  of  heaven, 

And,  as  the  dream-face  passed   down   memory's 

ways, 
I  felt  my  courage  come  to  me  again. 
'Twas  well,  because  next  morn,  all  unawares, 
As  I  leaned  o'er  and  watched  the  silver  wake. 
White  gleaming  in  the  sombre  wine-dark  sea. 
They  came  behind  and  seized  me  by  the  hair. 
These  minions  of  Poseidon's  mighty  wrath; 
And,  ere  I  knew,  they  rent  away  my  clothes — 
For  all  my  struggles  were  of  no  avail — 
And  bound  me  to  the  mast  with  cruel  thongs 
That  cut  my  naked  flesh  as  they  were  knives. 
And    there   I   stood,    scorched    by   the   blazing 
sun, 
The  same  still  silence  hanging  o'er  the  ship. 
While  they  made  mock  at  me  with  hollow  eyes. 
That  reeled  in  dizzy  shapes  before  mine  own. 
The  hours  crept  grimly,  dragging  lame  and  slow. 
Distilling  drops  of  unremitting  pain. 
While  I  made  effort  to  uplift  my  head 
And  strove  to  show  my  spirit  feared  them  not ; 
Although  my  thoughts  flew  far  and  oversea 
To  Hylas,  waiting  for  my  worthless  aid. 
Wistful,  with  watching  eyes  and  weary  fears. 


PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA  143 

Night  followed  day  and  day  in  turn  the  night, 
Till,  with  my  senses  numbed  by  utter  pain, 
I  hardly  saw  the  silent  deathly  crew, 
Or  knew  their  flashing  weapons  and  desire. 
But,  in  a  half-delirious  waking  dream, 
My  loved  one  spake  brave  words  and  gave  me 

strength ; 
Till,  as  the  lightning  cleaves  the  hollow  dark, 
I  saw  the  storm-bird  sweep  across  the  sea 
And  terror  shake  their  lean  and  haggard  forms. 
Low  cliff's  rose  sudden  from  the  seething  foam. 
The  winds  forgathered  o'er  the  broken  deep 
And  drave  the  sounding  waters  on  the  shore. 
Till  all  the  land  was  flecked  with  driving  foam 
And  all  the  sea  with  spindrift  was  obscured. 
And  we  upon  that  wild  and  wintry  waste 
Drave  straightly  through  the  raging  of  the  blast 
As  helpless  iron  hammered  from  the  forge ; 
Till  one  great  mountain  of  tumultuous  green 
Flung  the  frail  barque  upon  the  brazen  crags 
And  swept  her  clear  of  life  before  my  face. 

Then  for  one  moment  were  their  tied  tongues 
loosed. 
And,  as  they  vanished  in  the  treacherous  gulf, 
I  heard  their  cries  unearthly  and  aghast, 
That  shrieked  in  one  long  wail  of  strained  despair, 


144  PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 

With  hopeless  vows  and  direful  agonies. 
And  echo,  mocking,  tore  their  words  to  shreds 
And  flung  them  down  the  wind-tormented  air ; 
For  man  is  but  the  phantom  of  a  shade. 

No  more  I  knew  until  I  found  myself 
Within  the  shelter  of  a  sandy  bay, 
The  mast  half  broken  and  the  thongs  nigh  slipped. 
I  freed  my  limbs  and  sat  and  bowed  my  head 
And  pondered  on  the  things  that  were  to  be. 
Long  time  I  paused,  and  then,  with  many  a  toil, 
Set  forth  upon  my  way,  and  found  myself 
In  smiling  vales  of  quiet  fruitful  fields, 
And  homesteads  dotted  on  the  peaceful  slope — 
A  land  of  rest  and  solace  after  pain. 
And  there  I  met  a  lovely  brown-eyed  girl, 
And  told  her  of  my  shipwreck  and  dismay, 
Who  took  me  to  her  father's  house  ;  where  they, 
Though  simple  folk,  attended  me  right  well, 
And  healed  me  of  my  hurts  till  I  was  whole, 
And  told  me  of  the  awful  haunted  hills 
And  mighty,  brooding  shapes  and  chilling  powers. 
So,  when  they  heard  the  venture  I  essayed. 
They  warned  me  how,  though  many  had  gone  forth 
From  time  to  time  to  penetrate  the  glens 
That  opened  darkly  from  the  sunny  plain. 


PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA  145 

Where  far  away  the  mountains  reared  their  heads, 
None  ever  had  returned ;  and  even  those 
Who  only  wandered  to  the  mountain  foot 
Saw  sights  of  fear  so  terrible  and  strange 
As  e'en  to  leave  them  witless ;  or  again 
Were  found,  when  morning  broke,  destroyed  by 
death. 

And  beautiful  Mandane  stretched  her  arms 
All  sunburnt,  with  a  richly  glowing  tint. 
And  begged  me  to  remain.     And  thus  it  came, — 
My  soul,  alas,  was  taken  unawares. 
And  viewed  the  terror  of  the  journey  passed — 
The  thirst,  the  pain,  the  men,  the  raging  sea — 
While  here  was  tranquil  calm  and  still  repose. 
The  unknown  road  was  full  of  nameless  ills. 
None  ever  had  escaped,  and  how  should  I? 
For  if  my  heart  should  quail  at  any  pain, 
Or,  if  I  winced  before  the  gathering  blow. 
Then  Eros'  gift  would  flee  and  death  would  come. 
Hope  was  there  none.     Should  I  in  vain  set  out 
To  meet  a  certain  doom,  and  nevermore 
My  name  be  heard  of  anywhere  again? 
Or  should  I  take  the  chance  the  gods  had  sent. 
After  my  dread  and  weary  wanderings — 
A  sign  that  such  a  quest  was  not  for  me  ? 

K 


146  PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 

I  knew  not  how  to  reach  my  land  again, 
And  here  was  plenty,  'mid  the  happy  corn 
And  golden  orchards;  and,  beyond  all  else, 
Was  beautiful  Mandane  calling  me 
That  I  should  stay. 

How  wonderful  she  was, 
With  strong  brown  limbs  and  glorious  eyes,  and 

hair 
As  dark  as  night  that  tips  the  solan's  wings. 
Made  darker  by  the  contrast  with  the  light. 
And  she  would  love  me — that  I  knew  full  well 
Within  the  very  fibre  of  my  soul. 
Then  suddenly  my  heart  recoiled  again ; — 
Had  I  not  ventured  even  to  the  death? 
And  death,  if  death  were  mine,  I  would  not  flee. 
In  whatsoever  cruel  guise  he  came; 
And  that  I  had  attempted  I  would  do. 

So  came  it  that  I  bade  them  all  farewell, 
With   countless   thanks    for   all    their    kindness 

done, 
And  once  again  set  forth  upon  my  path. 
Mandane,  bearing  gifts  within  her  hands 
Of  fruit  and  wheaten  cakes  herself  had  made, 
A  little  way  came  with  me  on  the  road : 
And  as  we  parted  tears  were  in  our  eyes, 


PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA  147 

And  strange  emotions  stormed  within  my  soul 
Because  of  all  the  darkened  ways  of  fate. 

I  journeyed  on  along  the  coast  afar, 
Throughout  a  questing  round  of  hours  and  days. 
At  length  the  sun  revealed  a  narrow  cleft, 
Through  which  I  barely  forced  my  arduous  way, 
And  came  upon  a  hollow  in  the  rocks, 
A  dim,  delicious  haunt  of  silver  streams. 
With  shady  canopies  of  mountain  trees. 
And  saxifrage  and  gentian,  blue  as  heaven, 
And  mosses,  flecked  with  white  Parnassus  grass, 
And  in  the  midst  the  very  pool  itself. 

Then,  as  I  looked,  my  beating  heart  stood  still 
To  see  such  beauty  spread  before  my  gaze : 
Fair  nymphs  with  flowing  hair  about  their  knees. 
And  snowy  forms  transfused  with  sunset  glow. 
Stately  and  tall,  and,  as  they  swiftly  moved, 
They  evermore  revealed  some  new  delight : 
The  soft  white  shoulders  peeping  through  their 

hair. 
Or  poise  of  head  on  neck  of  slender  grace. 

And  yet,  beyond  all  these,  more  beauteous  far, 
Divinely  moulded,  exquisitely  rare, 
At  the  last  margin  of  the  lilied  pool. 


148  PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 

Hylas  himself  leaned  low  with  mournful  eyes, 
Dowered  with  loveliness  the  uttermost, 
Full  strong  and  lithe  as  man  could  ever  be, 
Yet  graced  with  tender  subtleties  of  form 
No  woman  might  excel,  and,  crowning  all, 
A  spiritual  beauty  more  than  heaven. 

They  saw  me  as  I  stood  there  in  amaze. 
And  cried :  *  Another  Hylas  for  our  mate, 
Mayhap  more  kind,  to  sport  and  play  with  us.' 
And  so,  with  one  accord,  they  left  the  pool 
And  ran  toward  me  with  their  witching  grace ; 
Nor  could  I  flee,  for  there  was  Hylas'  self. 
For  whose  release  alone  I  ventured  all. 
And  yet  I  turned  to  view  the  way  I  came. 
And  there  beheld,  low  crouching  by  the  gate, 
A  shape,  repulsive,  gaunt,  and  evil-starred. 
Not  wholly  man,  with  twisted,  sinewy  limbs, 
Like  unto  him  that  steered  the  hollow  ship, 
Less  human  seeming,  if  such  thing  might  be. 
Then  met  our  eyes,  and  lo !  he  was  the  same. 
And  he  devoured  me  with  malignant  hate. 

I  turned ;  they  closed  around  me,  laughing  light. 
And  drew  me  to  the  margin  of  the  pool 
And  fell  to  coaxing  me  to  play  with  them. 


PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA  149 

I  glanced  at  Hylas,  and  then  made  my  mind 
To  humour  them  and  gain  my  emprise  thus, 
Playing  about  their  spell-bound  lilied  pool; 
Till  as  the  dark  drew  on  they  tired  of  play, 
And  I  crept  near  to  Hylas  in  the  gloom 
And  softly,  speaking  low,  I  told  him  all. 

So  passed  the  days,  and  ever  that  gaunt  shape. 
Saved  by  Poseidon's  aid  to  work  me  woe, 
Guarded  the  gateway  of  the  narrow  rocks. 
At  first  I  deemed  he  never  slept,  but  lo, 
I  found  that  if  it  were  that  Hylas  slept. 
He  slumbered  also,  as  by  magic  lulled. 
But,  whensoe'er  the  boy  awoke,  he  too 
Aroused  himself  and  watched  with  evil  eye. 

And  so  one  night,  toward  the  early  dawn, 
While  yet  the  moon  was  overhead  and  bright, 
I  raised  the  radiant  boy  within  my  arms 
Most  tenderly,  lest  I  should  waken  him. 
And  stole  full  softly  to  the  rocky  gate. 
And  oh,  how  fair  he  was !  I  fain  had  kissed 
Those  long  dark  lashes  of  his  sleeping  eyes. 
But  near  the  narrow  portal  he  awoke. 
'Speed  swift,'  I  cried,  and  on  we  fled  amain. 
He  gained  the  cleft,  but  as  I  touched  the  rock 


150  PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 

The  gaunt,  gigantic  guardian  of  the  gate 
Stretched  out  his  bony  arm  and  hurled  a  block 
Of  mighty  stone  athwart  the  open  space 
And  severed  us,  and  then  with  claw-like  hand 
He  tore  my  face  and  sorely  spoiled  my  limbs. 
And  flung  me  on  the  banks  above  the  pool. 

So  when  the  morn  appeared  the  lovely  nymphs 
Bewailed  mj'^  form  and  rent  their  wondrous  hair 
For  Hylas  that  was  lost  and  me  destroyed. 
Full  lovingly  they  bathed  my  many  wounds, 
And  waited  on  my  needs  with  skilful  hands, 
Until  they  almost  won  from  me  my  love, 
So  winning  were  they,  with  such  simple  grace. 
Reminding  me  of  her  I  left  in  heaven, 
Who  drew  me  ever  as  a  homing  star ; 
Nor  gave  they  credence  to  the  guardian's  tale, 
But  laid  on  him  a  spell  unspeakable, 
For  that  he  thus  had  shattered  their  delight. 

And,  when  the  time  was  full,  my  wounds  were 
healed ; 
But  I  was  seared  and  scarred  and  sorely  maimed. 
And  ail  my  beauty  gone  for  evermore, 
Till  wept  the  nymphs  whene'er  they  looked  at  me. 
In  pity,  and  because  I  vexed  their  sight. 


PHiLISTOS  AND  NEAIRA  151 

So  to  the  monstrous  villain  at  the  gate 

They  turned,  and  loudly  they  upbraided  him 

And  spake  in  anger:  '  Open  out  the  cleft ; 

For  lo,  we  had  a  boy  to  play  with  us, 

And  beautiful  withal  beyond  compare. 

But  you  have  spoiled  him,  and  our  eyes  no  more 

Can  take  their  pleasure  in  his  godlike  grace. 

So  must  thou  let  him  go,  thou  loathed  thing. 

For  that  he  now  is  hateful  to  our  sight. 

When  in  the  mazy  dances  on  the  sward 

He  intertwines  his  ruined  form  with  ours.' 

Thus  then  I  went  away,  and  as  I  passed 
I  heard  their  tears  soft  falling  by  the  pool. 
And  caught  the  cadence  of  their  vain  lament: 

*No  more,  no  more,  he  comes  to  us  no  more. 
No  joy  of  yestere'en  can  e'er  return ; 

And  youthful  beauty,  once  'tis  clouded  o'er, 
No  winds  can  clear  or  fan  its  flames  to  burn. 

'We  dance  our  round  with  one  no  longer  here. 
The  while  the  void  recalls  the  shape  we  miss ; 

And  idle  memories  play  about  his  hair 
And  print  upon  the  perfect  throat  a  kiss. 

*  Our  selfish  love,  half  petulant  and  proud, 
Pities  her  own  sad  fortune  and  despair, 

Yet  in  supremer  moments  wails  aloud 

That  pain  should  fall  upon  a  form  so  fair.' 


152  PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 

And  down  I  sped,  and  found  upon  the  shore 
Hylas  still  waiting,  watching  o'er  the  wave. 
And  as  I  reached  the  strand  a  ship  appeared, 
Dark-sailed  and  swart ;  and  after  that  a  white, 
With  kindlier  sail  and  comelier  guise,  drew  nigh. 
And  on  her  deck  we  sailed  a  silver  sea. 
While  music,  low,  melodious,  lulled  our  care, 
And  all  our  long  woe  lifted  from  our  souls. 
Until  we  glided  smoothly  to  the  land. 

And  Herakles  himself  came  down  the  slope 
And,  taking  Hylas  gently  by  the  hand. 
Too  overjoyed  for  speech,  he  led  us  both 
Up  the  vast  valley  and  the  secret  stair. 
The  brazen  gates  swung  open,  and  within 
Passed  Herakles  with  Hylas  at  his  side. 
Oft  looking  back,  till  he  was  seen  no  more. 

And  Aphrodite  met  them  as  they  went. 
And  hastened  forward  to  the  sounding  gates, 
Leading  my  flower  of  perfect  innocence, 
To  whom  in  part  she  showed  my  woes  endured. 
So  drew  she  near  and  saw  my  piteous  plight. 
And,  with  a  little  cry  of  joy  and  grief. 
Ran  toward  me,  and,  unlike  the  soulless  nymphs, 
Fickle  and  charming  in  their  idle  love, 


PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA  153 

Drew  down  my  face,  all  scarred,  and  passed  her 

hand, 
Her  little  hand,  across  my  injured  brows. 
And  laid  her  other  hand  upon  my  own 
And  pressed  it  gently,  bowing  low  her  head ; 
While  letting  fall  great  tears  of  pity's  self 
With  admiration  nigh  akin  to  love. 

And  Eros,  too,  drew  near ;  and  once  again 
We  met  before  the  brazen  gate,  and  he 
Would  hear  my  tale ;  and  so  I  told  them  all, 
Upon  that  very  door-sill,  gazing  down 
Where  we  had  talked  so  many  moons  ago. 
Love  looked  upon  me  with  those  searching  eyes 
As  I  approached  the  ending  of  my  tale. 
*  But  for  my  boon,'  said  he,  *  thou  hadst  been  slain  ; 
Such  was  the  strength  of  my  immortal  gift. 
But  beauty  lost  I  cannot  give  thee  twice. 
Yet  hearken  unto  me  and  follow  well ; 
And  unto  her  that  sitteth  at  thy  side 
Do  as  thou  didst  with  me,  and  lay  thy  hands 
Upon  her  shoulders,  small  and  white  and  bare. 
And  gaze  within  those  eyes  as  into  mine. 
And  all  thy  beauty  thou  shalt  yet  regain — 
Not  all  at  once,  but  slowly — and  at  last 
Thou  shalt  be  fairer  even  than  before. 


154  PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 

But  must  she  love  thee  first ;  although  as  yet 
She  hardly  knoweth  love's  significance, 
So  childlike  is  her  sympathy  and  grief; 
And  even  this  may  be  a  pang  to  thee, 
But  take  thou  courage.' 

So  his  mother  came 
And  brought  the  child,  and  Love  drew  forth  a  dart, 
The  while  I  hid  my  eyes,  lest  I  should  see 
The  thing  I  knew  would  follow.     As  I  stooped 
I  heard  a  cry  that  pierced  mj^  soul  itself, 
And  looked  again,  and  in  her  tender  breast. 
The  loveliest  that  ever  nature  formed, 
I  saw  the  cruel  dart.     With  careful  haste 
I  drew  it  forth,  and  as  her  eyes  looked  up, 
With  just  a  little  pouting  of  the  lips, 
I  bent  me  dovv  n  and  took  my  first  long  kiss. 
And  felt  the  little  arms  about  my  neck 
And  drank  the  pure  white  love  of  innocence ; 
Then  looking  up,  with  rising  words  of  thanks, 
We  found  ourselves  alone  and  they  were  gone. 

Once  more  they  came,  and  gave  to  us  to  build, 
Beside  the  gate  of  heaven,  a  fadeless  bower ; 
And  there  we  dwell,  and  Hermes  passes  forth, 
And  turns  again,  and  tells  us  all  that  is. 


PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA  155 

While  we  by  day  attend  upon  the  gods 

And  do  them  service;  or  Apollo  comes, 

And,  sitting  at  his  feet,  we  learn  the  truths 

That  underlie  the  universal  change. 

Or,  yet  again,  'tis  ours  to  pass  below 

And  ease  the  care  of  some  poor  mortal  wight, 

Sharing  the  while  his  toil  or  pain  with  him ; 

But,  when  the  best  of  work  is  duly  done, 
A  better  best  than  all  the  god  supplies 
When  in  our  fadeless  bower  alone  we  sit 
And  gaze  deep  down  into  each  other's  eyes. 


O  Love  !  O  Love !  we  turn  our  eyes  to  thee, 
And  watch  thee  shaping  all  the  world's  desire; 

All  we  hav^e  known,  or  hoped,  or  dared  to  see, 
Is  gladly  burned  to  feed  thy  flaming  fire. 

We  bring  thee  pearls  and  chrysolites  of  fame. 
And  wealth  in  ruby,  emerald,  and  gold. 

And  power  in  blinding  diamonds  all  aflame, 
Or  sapphires  of  our  youth  and  strength  untold. 

We  drag  thy  woeful  car  as  willing  slaves. 
We  gain  our  greatest  griefs  in  serving  thee, 

Yet  rail  at  death  because,  within  our  graves. 
He  breaks  our  bonds  and  sets  the  captive  free. 


156  PHILISTOS  AND  NEAIRA 

Draw  near  us  at  the  end  with  one  last  kiss, 
O  Love !  O  Love !  with  lips  all  lire  again, 

And  if  there  be  another  world  than  this, 

'Tis  none  for  us  without  Love's  mystic  pain. 

EDINBURGH 


LOVE'S    VISION 

I.  SPRING 
II.  AUTUMN 

III.  IN  TWELVE  MONTHS 

IV.  AFTER 


SPRING  159 


LOVE'S    VISION 
I 

SPRING 

FOR  me  the  great  slow  years  are  more  than 
years 
As  I  look  back  along  the  lengthening  way ; 
Seen  through  the  sombre  veil  of  memory's  tears — 
The  castle-heights  are  grey. 

Can  that  be  I,  the  graceful  lad  I  see, 

My  lady's  page,  with  sad  and  wondering  eyes, 

His  head  flung  back  and  hands  about  his  knee. 
Watching  in  wistful  wise  ? 

High  rose  her  walls  above  the  stream  below 
That  circled  round  the  base  of  that  stern  tower, 

And  all  night  long  one  heard  the  unceasing  flow 
Beneath  my  lady's  bower. 


i6o  LOVE'S  VISION 

Through  silent  hours,  within  the  casement  seat, 
'Mid  white,  piled  clouds,  I  built  me  strongholds 
vast, 

Where  she  and  I  might  view  beneath  our  feet 
The  world's  dominions  cast. 

And  ever  from  the  window  would  I  bend 
To  watch  the  broidery  on  her  golden  frame, 

And  marvelled  to  behold  the  colours  blend 
In  hues  no  tongue  could  name. 

Great  shapes  grew  real  that  the  poet  feigns : 
Heroic  deeds  among  the  Latian  Hills, 

The  Sabine  rape,  and  steeds  with  tossing  manes 
And  fiery,  untamed  wills. 

Thus  would  I  oft  the  golden  hours  beguile, 
Awed  by  the  forms  her  fingers  deftly  trace ; 

Or,  bolder  grown,  spell-bound  and  rapt  the  while, 
I  drew  my  lady's  face. 

A  fragile  blossom  of  the  early  Spring, 

Her  years  scarce  more  than  moons  the  year 
has  seen, 

Yet,  in  her  girlhood's  slender  fashioning, 
The  grace  to  deck  a  queen. 


SPRING  i6i 

The  meanest  service  flushed  my  soul  with  pride, 
While   haughty   serving   dames   provoked   my 
hate : — 

Their  right  to  tire  her  hair!     Ah,  woe  betide 
The  mocking  gulf  of  fate  ! 

I  trained  her  falcon,  and  her  tender  smile 

Turned  my  world's  darkness  to  a  land  of  light, 

And  in  delirious  dreams  I  wrung  awhile 
Sleep's  ransom  from  the  night. 

And  once — yea,  once,  but  once  alone,  ah  me  ! — 
My  service  gained  the  long  dream-fancied  bliss, 

And  o'er  her  little  hand  I  leaned,  and  she 
Freed  my  lips'  prisoned  kiss. 

But  never  nearer  did  my  soul  draw  nigh, 

Nor  knew  more  deeply  than  mere  fancies  see ; 

For  a  great  knight,  of  noble  lineage  high. 
Stole  her  away  from  me. 


i62  LOVE'S  VISION 

II 

AUTUMN 

QO  back  unto  my  father's  halls  I  turned 

In  a  mazed  stupor.     Day  succeeded  day, 
Yet  brought  no  pain.     No  passion  ever  burned; 
No  hope  was  left  for  which  I  might  have  yearned, 
Nor  aught  for  which  to  pray. 

My  father  died  and  left  me  lord  of  land 

While  yet  a  boy — great  wealth  of  vale  and  hill, 
Rich  pasture  and  wild  wind-swept  rocky  strand. 
Where  the  bleak  waters  surged  on  every  hand 
And  communed  with  my  will. 

Then  did  I  choose  a  chamber  in  a  tower, 

That  caught  the  warm  glow  of  the  Western  rays, 
Lofty  and  far  apart.     There  hour  by  hour 
Full  many  a  man  employed  his  utmost  power, 
Skilled  in  a  thousand  ways, 

For,  choice  arcades  I  built  around  the  wall, 

And  set  four  triple  lights  of  double  planes 
And  orders  rich.     On  clustered  columns  tall 
I  raised  a  vaulted  roof  above  them  all 
With  love's  exceeding  pains. 


AUTUMN  163 

Black  marble  from  Eleusis  formed  the  floor, 

And  on  its  gleaming  inky  sea  was  made, 
Betwixt  the  farthest  columns  from  the  door, 
A  base,  with  traceried  panels  covered  o'er, 

Of  dulled,  unpolished  shade. 

And  with  mine  own  hands  carved  and  placed   I 
there, 
Of  Parian  stone,  translucent,  cold,  and  white, 
Her  little  face,  framed  in  its  flowing  hair. 
That    flecked    her    slender    throat,   so   soft   and 
bare, 
Of  infinite  delight. 

And  on  her  brow  I  placed  a  coronet 

And  round  about  her  neck  a  golden  chain. 

And  where  all  beauty  in  the  whole  world  met, 

E'en  on  her  lips,  that  time  alone  I  set 
My  kiss  of  bitter  pain. 

And  then,  because  she  loved  me  not,  I  wrought 

And  fixed  a  silver  barrier  hard  and  fast, 
Where  I  might  kneel  and  gaze  in  silent  thought. 
Counting  the  empty  present  all  as  naught, 

And  contemplate  the  past. 


i64  LOVE'S  VISION 

Each  morn,  betwixt  the  barrier  and  the  base, 
I  laid  fresh  blooms  of  whitest  cyclamen, 

And  all  day  long  I  looked  into  her  face; 

But,  in  the  dark,  I  leaned  across  the  space 
And  swept  it  clear  again. 


IN  TWELVE  MONTHS  165 

III 
IN    TWELVE    MONTHS 

nPHERE  in  the  garden  in  the  early  grey 
I  broke  the  wonted  fever  of  my  sleep, 
What  time  my  footsteps  marked  the  dewy 
lawn, 
And  culled  the  wan  white  blossoms'  pale  display, 
Piling  their  fragrance  in  a  pain-fraught  heap, 
Then  turned  before  the  breaking  of  the  dawn. 

And  there  one  morn  I  found  a  lovely  child. 

Who  stood  and  watched  with  wide,  dark,  won- 
drous eyes, 
Then  shyly  gathered  flowers  in  her  turn. 
But  spake  not,  only  looked  at  me  and  smiled, 
And  timidly  drew  near  with  sweet  surprise 
Of  childhood's  sympathy  and  grave  concern. 

They  were  the  same  grey  eyes,  dark  grey  and  clear, 
With  some  faint  semblance  of  the  hidden  fire 
That  burned  my  heart  out  in  the  older  days. 
I  bowed  me  down  to  stay  the  stinging  tear 
And  the  hot  furnace  of  my  vain  desire 

Ere  I  passed  back  along  the  returning  ways. 


i66  LOVE'S  VISION 

The  following  morn  I  found  her  waiting  there 
With   wealth    of    fresh-blown    blossoms  silver 
white ; 
And  half  within  my  hands  she  gently  placed, 
And  half  she  bore  herself  with  stately  care, 
And  at  my  side  she  lightly  trod  the  height 
Past  the  steep  stairs  where  the  stern  warders 
paced. 

Reflecting  lights  in  that  dim  marble  mere. 
Beyond  the  silver  rail  we  let  them  shine ; 

While  still  the  sweet,  cold  face  looked  down 
and  smiled. 
But  as  I  stooped,  and  could  not  stay  the  tear, 
I  felt  the  small  white  hands  v/ere  placed  on  mine, 
And  my  proud  heart  was  taken  by  a  child. 

And  thus  inspired,  taught  by  a  child,  I  learn 

The  bond  that  binds  the  world,  before  unknown. 
So  am  I  shut  within  myself  no  more, 

Nor  grief,  as  erst,  his  selfish  hours  doth  turn, 
But  lightens  the  world's  sorrows  with  mine  own. 

Yet  the  fresh   blooms  still  deck   the  marble 
floor. 


AFTER  167 

IV 
AFTER 

X7ESTREEN  I  stood  and  gazed  into  night's  deeps  : 
The  world    hiy  hushed,  save   for   a   gentle 
breeze 
That  sighed  as  some  soft  sound  of  murmuring 
seas, 
Sweeping,  in  whispering  portents  o'er  the  steeps. 
Strange  secrets  of  the  old,  dim,  haunted  trees. 

The  Child  lay  sleeping;  else  was  none  astir 
Save  I,  who,  leaning  on  the  sill  alone. 
Strained  eye  and  ear  to  catch  the  hollow  moan 

Of  the  true  sea,  beyond  the  waste  of  fir. 

With  glimmering  grey  and  low,  sad  undertone. 

So  still  she  lay,  so  pure  and  frail  and  white 
And  paler  'mid  the  darkly  framing  hair ; 
While  on  her  little  hand  low  lying  there 

Shone  the  great  jewels  in  the  dusky  light; — 
Child,  once  a  Child,  and  still  unearthly  fair. 


i68  LOVE'S  VISION 

Then  from  the  West,  beyond  the  severing  sea, 
From  the  moon's  grave  forth  rose  an  orb  of  fire, 
Whose  lambent  flames  were  fed  by  fierce  desire ; 

Till  Heaven's  far  heights  glowed  as  in  agony, 
As  some  wild  sunrise  sent  by  God  in  ire. 

And  near  and  nearer  drew  the  flaming  mass, 
And  opened  out,  and  world  on  world  revealed  ; 
Veil  after  veil  is  rent  till,  unconcealed. 

Heaven  towers  above  a  sea  of  molten  glass 
And  flings  its  image  in  the  gleaming  field 

Until  my  eyes  are  strained,  in  spell-bound  gaze. 
Toward  a  throne  upon  that  mystic  shore 
Of  hopes  regained  and  drifted  days  of  yore ; 

And  back  my  memory  turns  in  fond  amaze 

To  find    my   boyhood's  dreamings  come    once 
more. 

There,  'mid  the  isles  of  God,  she  sits  serene. 
While  sweeps  the  wave  around  her  rock-hewn 

seat. 
About  my  Lady's  neck  a  child's  arms  meet. 

And  one  has  laid  his  head  her  knees  between 
And  crouches  on  the  ground  betwixt  her  feet. 


AFTER  169 

And,  as  the  Child  half  leans  upon  the  stone, 
And  turns  the  head  till  lightly  falls  the  hair, 
She  shows  those  features  'still  unearthly  fair.' 

The  man's  face  lifts — and  lo,  it  is  mine  own : 
We  three  alone  with  God,  and  none  else  there. 

WINCHESTER 

Here  endeth  '  Love's  Vision.' 


170  THE  DANCING-CLASS 


THE   DANCING-CLAwSS 

A  Reverie 

TM  sinuous  lines  they  deftly  trace 

-^     The  whirling  dance  that  moves  apace, 

Thread  and  rethread  and  interlace 

Athwart  the  floor; 
Light  limbs  and  little  flashing  feet 
In  dainty  dresses  swiftly  fleet, 
And  white  and  blue  and  purple  meet 

For  me  once  more. 

Oh,  white-armed  maidens,  children  fair. 
With  joyous  eyes  and  flashing  hair, 
And  movements  rapturously  rare 

Of  grace  untold, 
Revealing,  'mid  the  mazy  drift 
Of  silken  folds  that  fall  and  lift, 
The  wonder  in  God's  highest  gift 

Of  human  mould ! 


THE  DANCING-CLASS  171 

Ah,  sweetest  face  in  all  the  throng ! 
Whose  Keltic  eyes  gleam  true  and  strong, 
Blue  molten  fires  'neath  lashes  long, 

Be  with  me  still; 
And  let  thy  raven  tresses  stream 
Through  all  the  windings  of  my  dream. 
Till,  leaning  o'er  their  source,  I  seem 

To  drink  my  fill. 

Ye  too,  whose  witching  footsteps  sped 
With  light  Terpsichorean  tread 
To  those  gay  measures  lately  fled 

So  fast  away; 
Yea,  one  and  all  come  back  to  me. 
That  in  my  dreams  I  still  may  see 
Each  beauty  live  continuously 

In  charmed  array. 

Yes,  you  whose  feet  outvied  the  rest. 
And  haunting  gestures  all  expressed 
More  than  our  richest  words  and  best 

Could  ever  tell, 
Let  once  your  slender  shape  again 
Leap  to  the  music's  wild  refrain, 
Delirious,  beating  in  my  brain 

Beneath  your  spell. 


172  THE  DANCING-CLASS 

And  you,  a  queenlier  Artemis, 

Whose  mien  defies  analysis. 

With  lips  designed  for  gods  to  kiss, 

Come  yet  again, 
And  hold  us  far,  as  once  of  old 
The  maiden-huntress,  overbold, 
Would  each  elusive  charm  withhold 

In  proud  disdain. 

And  yet  one  more  with  tender  gaze. 
Who  sees  the  end  of  childhood's  days. 
Yet  knows  not  of  the  darkening  ways 

That  cannot  fail. 
Ah,  children,  could  we,  for  your  sake. 
Give  all  we  have  for  you  to  take, 
Our  lives,  our  hearts  were  yours  to  break, 

Could  that  avail ! 

But  nothing  steads ;  the  dances  lead 
Through  stranger  dances,  swift  indeed. 
With  burning  steps  and  feet  that  bleed, 

To  fiercer  strains. 
Those  little  forms  of  girlish  grace 
Must  bear  the  sorrows  of  our  race 
As  the  dark  years  bring  on  apace 

Unnumbered  pains. 


THE  DANCING-CLASS  173 

So  the  glad  mood  gives  place  to  fears, 

The  laughing  pageant  disappears, 

And  whelmed  by  gloom  of  gathering  years 

Lights  die  that  shone. 
And  I, — what  is  there  left  for  me 
As  the  last  visions  fade  and  flee. 
Sitting  and  watching  vacantly, 

When  all  are  gone? 

SEASCALE 


174 


ISOLT 


ISOLT 
A  Fragment 

'OT  that  first  Isolt,  who  from  Ireland  came 
To  dwell  in  old  Tintagel  by  the  sea, 
Nor  yet  that  fairer  maid,  who  bore  the  name 
And  won  in  Brittany  a  purer  fame, 
Is  she  that  keeps  my  burning  soul  aflame 
And  comes  in  dreams  to  me. 

By  night  she  comes  in  dreams,  elusive,  vain; 

But  oh,  my  waking  heart,  when  comes  the  day 
That  dissipates  the  eternal  clouds  of  pain, 
And  eyes  so  long  deceived  behold  her  plain? 
Yet  what,  if  I  have  dreamed,  and  dreamed  again. 

And  dreamed  my  love  away ! 

ISLE  OF  FOULA 


THE  BATHING-POOL 


175 


THE  BATHING-POOL 

TULY,  with  lavish  hand  and  sumptuous  pride, 
^      Flings  all  her  rainbow  splendour,  blue  and 

green. 
Gold,  crimson,  and  rich  purple,  far  and  wide, 
Nor  heeds  nor  cares  who  love  or  who  deride 
What  is  or  is  not  seen. 


The  river  murmurs  sleepily  and  low, 

The    landscape     dances    in    the    shimmering 
haze; 
My  feet,  unbidden,  undirected,  go 
Meandering  where  the  sullen  waters  flow 
Beneath  the  noonday  blaze. 

And  sudden  pause,  for  through  the  heavy  air. 
Almost  averse  that  it  should  let  them  pass, 
Glad  sounds  of  boyhood's  laughter  unaware 
Strike    on    my    ear,    and    plashings    here    and 
there 
Disturb  the  limpid  glass. 


176  THE  BATHING-POOL 

Lo,  where  the  sun  upon  the  meadow  shines, 
A  dream  of  youth — whence  age,  a  rumoured 
jest, 
Bides  far  away — that  in  its  boyish  lines 
Man's  strength  with  more  than  woman's  grace 
combines, — 
The  Master-Sculptor's  best. 

Of  such  the  singers  in  terrestrial  choirs, 

Impelling  half-reluctant  eld  to  bend ; 
And  such  the  artist  some  true  thought  inspires 
To  image  breathing  o'er  celestial  lyres 
The  songs  that  never  end. 

And  one  I  watch,  with  softly  curling  hair, 

And    deep-set   eyes    that   shame   the   heaven's 
sheen, 
And  delicate  chiselled  lips  serene  and  rare, 
Once  known  before,  and  see  confront  me  there 
My  boy — that  might  have  been. 

The  hope,  that  lingers  ere  the  days  grow  late, 

Burns  dimly,  flickers,  smoulders,  dies  away. 
When  no  more  morrows  fill  the  lap  of  Fate 
'Tis  some  poor  maniac  lights  his  lamp  to  wait 
And  hope  for  yesterday. 


THE  BATHING-POOL  177 

My  yesterday  is  dead,  and  left  no  heir 

To  live  afresh  in  the  new  morrow's  morn ; 

What  the  lean  hands  of  this  poor  present  spare 

I  clutch,  and  greedily  consume  it,  ere 
The  leaner  morrow 's  born. 

And  there,  where  yonder  lovely  pageant  glows, 
My  straining  eyes  absorb  each  subtle  line, — 
The  rhythmic  swing  enmeshed  in  every  pose, 
One  instant  poised;  then,  as  the  waters  close, 
I  wish  their  touch  were  mine. 

Must  beauty's  evanescent  glory  fade  ? 

Those    lithe    limbs,    flashing    in    the    summer 
light. 
Glowing  beyond  all  else  that  nature  made. 
Rose-tinted,  warm,  soft  melting  into  shade. 

Fall  as  the  prey  of  night  ? 

And  long  ago  would  they  some  answer  crave. 
Who    watched    the    youthful    loins    ungirt    at 
play, 
Yet  time,  nor  change,  nor  death  an  answer  gave. 
'Twas  nowise  strange  the  nymphs,  such  grace  to 
save. 
Stole  Hylas,  as  men  say. 

M 


178  THE  BATHING-POOL 

No  more  the  nymphs  in  haunted  waters  lie ; 

No  more  may  ye,  as  age-long  captives  borne, 
Win   endless   youth.  .  .  .  Say   ye  the   price  too 

high?  .  .  . 
Speak   then — when   all  is   lost  and   youth  gone 
by- 
Decrepit  and  forlorn. 

OXFORD 


DYING  HOPE  179 


DYING   HOPE 

A  lover  sees  his  own  reflection  in  the  glass  that  covers 
his  lady's  portrait. 

INE  eyes  still  see  her  portrait,  as  of  old, 
The  same  sweet  face — oh,  would  I  saw  it 
yet!— 
While  Love's  warm  breath  plays  o'er  my  features 

cold 
And  these  my  bloodless  hands,  that  trembling  hold 
What  no  desire-fraught  passion  can  forget. 

And  as  I  gaze  mine  image  in  the  glass 

Blends  with  her  peerless  image  there  below, 

Our  lips  more  close  than  when  the  kisses  pass — 

Herself  in  me,  myself  in  her.     Alas  ! 
A  mockery  of  a  joy  not  mine  to  know. 

0  Love,  O  bitter  Love,  why  weepest  thou, 

And  with  thy  long  wings  shadowest  thy  head  ? 
While,  through  the  slender  fingers  'neath  thy  brow, 

1  see  the  shining  drops  close  stealing  now. 

Oh,  tell  me  not  that  even  Hope  is  dead ! 


i8o  DYING  HOPE 

So  spent  and  wan  thou  art,  thy  silvern  wings 
Droop  sadly,   and    my  heart   scarce  seems    to 
know 
Thy  boyish  tones  in  that  sad  voice  that  sings ; 
And   the  white   thigh,    'gainst  which  the  quiver 
swings, 
Has  lost  the  supple  grace  of  long  ago. 

Sing  me  a  happier  song,  let  one  note  tell 

Clear  'mid  the  echoing  wail;  one  hope  be  left, 
Anon  returning,  as  some  tolling  bell 
Sounds  a  wild  note  above  the  organ  swell : 
'Hope  on,  hope  on,  not  yet  of  all  bereft.' 

And  lift  away  thine  hands,  and  once  again 

Let  me  gaze  deep  within  those  deathless  eyes ; 
Once  wast  thou  wont  to  let  me  see  them  plain, 
Not  hidden,  as  for  some,  and  I  would  fain 

Know  the   old   Love,  lost  'neath   this  piteous 
guise. 

Bear  her  one  kiss  across  the  cold  grey  tide; 

Perchance  she  yet  recalls  some  once  loved  day : 
The  burning  talk  this  wind-swept  shore  beside, 
The  silent  commune  o'er  a  world  spread  wide 

Beneath  us  in  yon  city  far  away. 


DYING  HOPE  i8i 

O  Love,  fly  quickly,  ere  the  last  spark  fails, 

Ere  that  Too  Late,  whose  name  I  dare  not  say, 
Steals  her  away,  and  Hope  no  more  avails 
To  stay  the  searching  wind  that  shrilly  wails 
Round  this  bare  heart's  tower  desolate  and  grey. 

Love,  thou  art  gone,  and  through  the  open  door 

I  watch  thy  coming  o'er  the  pain-tossed  sea. 
The  white  spray  strives  to  kiss  the  stony  shore. 
The  mocking  winds  but  fling  it  back  once  more. 
Love — I  am  dying Bring  her  back  to  me. 

ISLE  OF  FOULA 


THE    MAGIC    ISLE 

I.  THE  WANDERING 
II.  THE  ISLE 


THE  WANDERING  185 


THE    MAGIC    ISLE 

I 

THE  WANDERING 

•  EYOND  the  seas,  beyond  the  changing  skies, 

Within  a  lake  a  magic  island  lies, 
'Mid  waters  rippling  in  their  lone  retreat. 
While  trackless  mountains  all  around  arise 
Far  from  the  passing  tread  of  mortal  feet. 

Few  have  essayed,  and  fewer  yet  have  seen, 
The  mystic  mere  and  those  dim  waters  green. 

And,  of  those  few,  how  many  have  beheld 
The  silvan  stillness  of  that  isle  serene. 

Revealed  a  while  and  then  again  withheld? 

For  some  it  looms  an  instant  and  is  lost. 
As  cloud-built  towers  vanish,  tempest-tossed ; 

And  some  have  trod  the  strand  and  learned  too 
late 
That  often  may  its  spell-bound  marge  be  crossed 

Only  to  speed  the  hastening  steps  of  fate. 


i86  THE  MAGIC  ISLE 

There,  through  the  clear  green  trees  with  fruit  of 

gold, 
Hoar  are  the  walls,  the  lintels  worn  and  old. 

Age-long  enchantments  guard  the  portals  well ; 
For,  in  this  far  retreat,  hath  legend  told 

That    in    high    halls    the   gods'   own   children 
dwell. 

Ah,  with  those  children  fair  to  sport  and  play 
And  fling  all  thought  of  age  and  time  away, 

Winning  the  smiles  upon  the  fresh  young  lips, 
Through  the  long  laughter  of  a  summer  day, 

Plucking  ripe  pleasure  ere  the  moment  slips! 

But  dire  the  deed  he  ventures  who  would  dare. 
E'en  though  he  find  the  isle,  to  linger  there ; 

For  boding  fate  will  steal  away  his  breath 
Unless  some  gift  from  those  frail  hands  and  rare 

Shall  stay  the  doom  of  dark,  oncoming  death. 

Nay,  but  e'en  now  my  memory  fondly  clings 
Round  each  loved  detail  of  the  lightest  things 

That  once  befell  me  in  the  days  of  youth, 
And  sadly  weeps  to  see  them  taking  wings 

Through    the    long,  misty  years  that  veil  the 
truth. 


THE  WANDERING  187 

'Mid  the  great  hills  I  roved,  a  lonely  child, 
Following  the  wind-borne  voices,  calling  wild, 

That  sang  into  my  ears  and  drew  me  on 
Down    the    grey    rocks    in    some    dark    corrie 
piled. 
Till,  shrill  with  mocking  laughter,  they  were 
gone. 

The  creeping  mists,  the  dark  peat-laden  burn. 
The  still  loch,  ruffled  by  the  light-winged  tern, 

Alike  were  full  of  shadowy  spirit  things, 
Sighing  through  heather  and  the  bracken  fern 

With  eerie  sound  of  whispered  communings. 

I  learned  to  seek  for  solace  in  that  deep 
Unhappy  music  on  the  haunted  steep, 

Companionless  and  wandering  alone, 
Where  sobbing  rains  upon  the  wet  hills  weep. 

In  mournful  utterance  familiar  grown. 

Silent,  reserved,  unable  to  explain, 
I  was  but  dimly  conscious  of  my  pain ; 

Albeit  at  times,  far  faring  down  the  glen. 
My  childhood's  shyness  opened  out  again 

And  drew  my  footsteps  toward  the  haunts  of 
men. 


i88  THE  MAGIC  ISLE 

A  fairy  child  there  was,  with  clouded  hair, 
And  oftwhiles  would  we  play  together  there ; 

Her   lips  were   laughter  and    her    blue  eyes 
light; 
Winds  softly  called  her  name  upon  the  air, 

And  dreams  of  her  would  visit  me  by  night. 

Yet  was  she  but  a  playmate  of  the  hour, 
Revealing  just  a  shadow  of  the  power 

That  human  intercourse  alone  can  wield, 
Beyond  the  most  entrancing  summer  flower 

That    the    grey,    brooding    hills    could    ever 
yield. 

And  once  I  saw  the  Spirit  of  the  Rain, 
The  harper  of  the  far-foreseeing  strain, 

Bowed  low  across  the  sadly  dripping  strings, 
Pursued  by  shadows  of  men's  souls  in  pain, 

Who  gazed  on  him  with  silent  questionings. 

And,  as  he  harped  and  sang,  there  grew  to  see 
The  unborn  hours  that  yet  one  day  may  be. 

A  few  were  sure,  but  most  were  still  unmade, 
Waiting  for  us  to  shape  their  destiny ; 

Some    full    of    hope    and    some    most    sore 
afraid. 


THE  WANDERING  189 

And,    of    them    all,    most    vague    were    mine    to 

trace, 
Tossed  on  strange  seas  or  rolling  hills  of  space, 

And  interspersed  with  flowery  lowland  glades; 
Yet  ever  loomed  the  shadow  of  a  face, 

Elusive  in  the  darkest  of  the  shades. 

Too  dim  to  catch,  too  dark  to  hold,  but  fair — 
Yes,  fair — amid  the  soul-entwining  hair. 

Ah,  vain  and  vain !     I  strove  in  vain  to  know 
Those  half-guessed  features  mocking  my  despair, 

With  slaying  eyes  and  luring  lips  aglow. 

Then  sang  the  Spirit-Harper  on  this  wise, 
And,  as  the  rain  blew  on  my  lips  and  eyes, 
I  deemed  he  sang  the  song  for  me  alone ; — 

*  The  flower  in  all  the  world  that  never  dies. 

The  flower  that  in  the  Magic  Isle  has  grown, 

*  The  flower  that  blooms  where  loveliest  blooms 

enthrall, 
A  bloom  more  lovely  even  than  them  all; 

One  flower  more  white  than  passion's  ecstasy. 
Darkening  the  snowflakes  even  as  they  fall; 
One  flower — nay,  more — none  other  can  there 
be,' 


igo 


THE  MAGIC  ISLE 


My    heart,    my    heart !      I    knew    not    what    it 

meant, 
That  beating  wave  of  gathering  intent. 

Yet  might  I  never  more  be  satisfied, 
Or  with  less  fragrant  blossoms  be  content, 

While  ever  land  or  sea  remained  untried. 

And  thus  it  came  that  o'er  the  hills  I  passed, 
Till  to  the  roaring  sea  I  came  at  last. 

And  out  into  the  stormy  dark  set  sail ; 
And,  while  the  misty  terror  held  me  fast, 

Still  rang  the  harper's  song  above  the  gale. 

Far  had  I  travelled,  far  o'er  nameless  land, 
Far  past  Okeanos'  remotest  strand. 

And  stood  upon  a  steep  and  jagged  height; 
And  there  below  me  shone  a  silver  band 

In  the  dark  shades  of  an  abysmal  night. 

A  solitary  pine  scarce  clung  on  high, 

Its  black,  flat  masses  dark  against  the  sky — 

The  nearest  tree  lost  in  the  depth  below ; 
And  far  beneath  was  heard  the  curlew's  cry. 

While,  on  the  peak,  wreaths  formed  and  melted 
slow. 


THE  WANDERING  191 

It  was  a  place  of  silence,  though  the  air 
Was  woven  with  sad  murmurs  everywhere : 

The  breathing  wind  that  swept  the  rank  brown 
grass, 
The  far-off  bleating  sheep,  and  over  there 

The  distant  rush  of  waters  down  the  pass. 

Here  was  the  inmost  spirit  of  the  hills, — 
Solemn,  immense,  whose  lonely  presence  fills 

The  heart  with  deep  emotions  strangely  blent, — 
The  peace,  their  changing  quietude  instils. 

Crossed    with    torn    hopes    and    restless    dis- 
content. 

And  voices  in  my  soul  spake  low  to  me; — 
*Is  not  the  placid  water's  mystery 

Itself  the  guerdon  of  untold  desire; 
And  on  its  cliff-bound  solitudes  must  be 

The  fleeting  isle,  whereto  thy  hopes  aspire?' 

Through  narrow  fissures,  every  limb  astrain, 
Or  on  the  open  rock,  with  dizzy  pain, 

I  held  to  life  and  hovered  over  death ; 
While  the  strange  music  rang  its  wild  refrain, 

That  nerved  my  strength  where  hope  scarce 
ventureth. 


192 


THE  MAGIC  ISLE 


And,  at  the  last,  I  gained  the  very  shore 
Beneath  the  iron  crags,  that  towered  o'er 

The  emerald  waters,  rising  stern  and  steep, 
Where  lapped  with  mellov/  laughter  evermore 

The  refluent  music  of  that  unplumbed  deep. 

When  Westward,  scarce  an  arrow-shot  away. 
Was  moored  a  little  shallop  in  a  bay. 

With  ivory  spars  and  damask  sails  bedight. 
And  ebon  strakes,  and  golden  shroud  and  stay, 

Her  polished  cedar  decks  agleam  with  light. 

Through  the  cool  waves  I  swam  and  reached  her 

side. 
And  lightly  laughed  aloud,  in  boyhood's  pride. 

To  weigh  the  silver  anchor  and  set  sail 
And,  helm  in  hand,  to  feel  the  vessel  glide 

Under  my  sole  control  with  favouring  gale. 

Upon  the  leeward  bow  I  soon  espied 

An  isle  engirt  by  blossoming  orchards  wide. 

With  pale,  flushed  hues  of  opalescence  fired, 
Where  dainty  colours  flashed  on  every  side, 

'Neath    towers    grey-blue    that    in    the    midst 
aspired. 


THE  WANDERING  193 

I  slackened  out  the  sheet  and  neared  the  shore, 
Where  flickering  roundels   sun-flecked    o'er  and 
o'er 

The  sloping  sward,  all  green  beneath  the  trees; 
When  lo,  as  I  drew  nigh  it  was  no  more, 

Naught  to  behold  save  the  light,  dancing  seas. 

Onward  I  sailed  above  the  very  place, 

Yet  every  side  outstretched  the  watery  space, 

Where   once   the   isle   had   been   and   was   no 
more. 
Below  me,  fathoms  deep,  I  failed  to  trace 

Or  shoal  or  shallow  of  that  vanished  shore. 

Was  this  the  end  of  all  the  Harper's  strain, 
The  end  of  all  the  waiting  and  the  pain. 

Where  the  slow  hand  of  destiny  holds  fast 
The  quivering  soul,  and  leads  it  to  be  fain 

Of  coming  hope,  yet  crushes  it  at  last? 

Is  this  the  end:  the  passion  and  the  gloom. 
The  deeper  love  that  sinks  in  deeper  doom. 

The  mist  within  our  souls  and  in  our  eyes. 
The  shadows  where  the  rain-clouds  ever  loom. 

And  in  our  ears  the  wind  that  never  dies  ? 

N 


194  THE  MAGIC  ISLE 

These  are  the  things  about  us  at  our  birth: 
The  lonely  hills,  the  mists,  the  sodden  earth, 

The    wailing    sorrow    of    the     sea -winds' 
breath. 
And  the  sad  coming  of  perennial  dearth; 

And  these  pursue  our  spirits  at  the  death. 

We  move  within  a  weary  shadowland, 
Where  melancholy  surges  beat  the  strand, 

And  all  the  light  is  fire  within  our  clay, 
And  all  the  music  we  may  understand 

The  spell  that  we  can  never  disobey. 

Thus  had  the  spirit  of  the  wild  returned, 
The  olden  spirit  of  the  waste,  that  burned 

In  melancholy  flames  my  being  through; 
When  lo,  my  wondering  eyes  again  discerned 

The  fleeting  isle  that  shaped  itself  anew. 

I  put  about  and  ran  before  the  breeze, 
And  rounded  up  and  anchored  at  my  ease 

Within  a  little  land-locked  sandy  cove, 
Amid  the  silent  shadow  of  the  trees. 

Through  which  the  winds  of  heaven  hardly 
strove. 


THE  WANDERING  195 

I  loosed  the  silken  halyards  from  the  mast 
And  lashed  the  ivory  tiller,  speeding  fast 

To  seize  the  moment  of  propitious  fate, 
And  in  the  alluring  waves  myself  to  cast. 

And  stroke  on  stroke  my  longing  consummate. 

Thus  on  the  threshold  of  desire  I  stood, 

The  fragrant  air  filled  full  with  all  things  good. 

So  near  the  goal  of  all  my  wandering: 
And  bright  dream-colours  of  the  magic  wood 

Lured  through  my  lips  the  joy  that  made  me  sing. 


'Light  the  lilt  of  liquid  laughter. 
Sweet  the  silvern  strains  of  song — 

Melodies  that  follow  after 

Longest  years  of  lingering  wrong. 

When  the  gloomy  nights  are  ended. 

See  the  morning  visions  splendid; 

Broken  hopes  at  length  are  mended, 
Broken  wings  grow  strong. 

*  Why  in  vain  to  darkest  sorrows 
Doth  the  fond  heart  sadly  cling, 

Looking  but  for  wearier  morrows. 
Fraught  with  woe  or  poisoned  sting? 

Lo,  the  flood-tides  now  are  flowing 

Whence  the  sullen  ebb  was  going; 

Last  year's  seeds  this  year  are  growing, 
Though  last  year  takes  wing. 


196  THE  MAGIC  ISLE 

'  Speed,  oh  speed,  the  swiftest  dances, 
From  your  lips  glad  music  give; 

Let  your  soul  defy  all  chances, 
Strange,  unknown,  and  fugitive. 

Wisdom  from  exhaustless  coffers 

Beauty,  love,  and  knowledge  proffers. 

What  hath  life  but  life?— She  offers 
Life  itself  to  live.' 


THE  ISLE 


II 
THE  ISLE 


197 


TT  was  a  place  most  glad  to  wander  through, 

■*-     Where  long  cool  grasses  underneath  the  trees 

Hid  orchid-flowers  and  pale  anemones 

And  blooms  of  unknown  hue  ; 

Yet  heavy  with  a  strange,  uncertain  scent 

Outpoured,  mellifluously  sweet, 

Exceeding  odorous, 

As  though  all  fragrant  things  together  blent — 

Thyme,  rosemary,  and  scented  marguerite, 

With  orange-blossom  and  convolvulus. 

And  all  that  perfume  was  with  memories  twined 

Of  old,  delightful  things,  till  senses  failed, 

As  by  some  cold  narcotic  drug  assailed. 

That  chilled  both  heart  and  mind 

And  heralded  the  swift  approach  of  death. 

Thus,  as  I  lay  and  felt  the  fleeting  breath 

Departing  from  me,  lo, 

In  undulating  cadence,  passed  along 

A  band  of  lovely  children,  dancing  slow. 

With  lilt  of  laughter  and  light  strains  of  song. 


198  THE  MAGIC  ISLE 

And,  as  they  saw  me  lying  'neath  the  trees, 
They  stayed  their  dances  and  their  lute  playing, 
And  silent  stood  in  sorrow's  pitying 
Of  childhood's  sympathies, 

Till  one  sweet  maiden,  stung  by  instant  thought, 
Brought  golden  fruit  and  laid  it  to  my  mouth 
And  stayed  my  spirit's  drouth ; 
For,  as  the  nectar  from  her  gift  of  gold 
Gave  my  half-conscious  lips  the  boon  unsought, 
Life  turned  once  more  and  stayed  his  loosening 
hold. 

I  never  saw  a  sight  more  rapturous 

As  there  I  lay  and  felt  my  powers  revive. 

In  all  the  fashionings  of  things  alive 

The  strangeliest  marvellous. 

Is  some  pure  child,  whose  years  such  length  may 

be 
That  youth  has  gained  the  firmly  sculptured  line, 
Shading  the  skin's  fair  white 
With  delicate  nuances  of  delight. 
Yet  has  not  lost  the  wonder  of  divine 
Infinitudes  of  possibility. 

As  strength  returned  they  fell  to  play  again, 
And  bade  me  join  them  in  their  frolic  mirth. 


THE  ISLE  199 

Or  exquisite  sad  dances,  of  fair  worth 

To  light  the  grey  of  pain. 

And  there  we  flung  the  spear  toward  the  mark, 

Or  whirled  the  circling  diskos  in  its  flight, 

Or,  on  swift  wings  of  light, 

Ourselves  fled  forth  with  flower-caressing  feet 

And  gladness,  more  than  sunrise  after  dark, 

Or  draught  of  bitter  waters  turned  to  sweet. 

Ah,  they  were  fair,  too  fair,  too  dearly  fair, 

Those  maidens  with  their  shadowy,  deep  eyes, 

And  boys,  with  slender  flanks  and  supple  thighs 

And  varying  muscles  bare. 

Shifting  as  clouds,  blown,  cirro-cumulous, 

In  subtle  transmutations  of  soft  shades. 

And  dear  to  me  their  names : 

Thauma  and  Agape,  sweet  childlike  maids ; 

Melissos,  agile  leader  in  their  games; 

Lysis,  immeasurably  beauteous. 

And  lo,  it  fell  that,  as  with  flying  stride 

We  lightly  leaped  a  little  waterway 

Where  gushed  the  eager  torrent  in  wild  play 

Rock-bound  on  either  side, 

I  struck  my  foot ;  and  straightway  glowing  red, 

As  flaring  poppies  touched  by  purple  stain. 


200  THE  MAGIC  ISLE 

With  stinging  twinge  of  pain, 

The  blood  flowed  freely  where  the  skin  was  rent; 
And,  as  I  paused  and  mused  with  bended  head, 
The  children  gathered  round  in  wonderment. 

Then  Lysis    spake:    'These   things   are   passing 

strange. 
For  rare  such  plight  as  thine  an  hour  ago ; 
Nor  ever  have  we  seen  the  dark  blood  flow 
In  all  the  years  of  change. 
What  is  this  i'ain  that  traverseth  thy  face, 
Whereof  no  knowledge  darkeneth  this  place? 
No  hurt  is  ours,  no  pain, 
No  grief,  no  death,  but  only  joy  and  light 
And  gladsome  laughter,  circling  round  again. 
As  follow  moon  on  moon  in  endless  flight.' 

I  gazed  at  him,  and,  as  I  gazed,  my  mind 

Fled  where  the  haunts  of  youth  and  all  its  days 

Of  joy  and  grief  were  tangled  in  life's  maze, 

Left  dimly,  far  behind. 

The  dark  was  ever  nearer  than  the  light; 

Grief  mastered  joy  ;  and  yet  in  retrospect 

The  memory  was  sweet. 

How  might  I  tell  these  contrasts  infinite, 

The  malady  of  mortal  woe  dissect, 

And  show  the  marvelled  mystery  complete? 


THE  ISLE  201 

A  land  that  knew  not  sorrow  !  happy  land ! 

inimitably  dowered  past  compare  ! 

Our  doom  on  common  earth,  'mid  cark  and  care, 

They  could  not  understand, 

'Surely  ye  know,'  I  said,  'the  strong  desire 

For  that  which  cannot  be,  or  come  again 

When  fled.     For  that  is  pain.' 

He  looked  at  me  with  his  great  eyes  of  fire, 

And  said :  '  We  could  not  wish  for  what  is  not ; 

How  should  we  then  be  happy  in  our  lot? 

'And  yet' — and  then  he  paused,  and  o'er  his  face 

I  saw  the  sadness  of  a  fleeting  shade — 

'And  yet,  though  otherwise  our  souls  are  made, 

Down  in  the  deeps  I  trace 

Some  knowledge,  faint,  of  that  of  which  you  tell. 

Some  shivering  note  of  passion  and  regret; 

Not  from  experience, 

But,  even  as  the  poet,  who  not  yet 

Himself  has  seen  or  felt  through  things  of  sense. 

Still  knows  indeed  and  infinitely  well. 

'Yet  hast  thou  somewhat  that  we  cannot  meet, 
For  ever  in  the  struggle  and  the  fight 
The  energy  outpoured  is  some  delight ; 
And  victory  is  sweet. 


202  THE  MAGIC  ISLE 

Bravely  to  front  the  terrible  unknown 

In  scorn  of  hurt,  while  fighting  on  through  pain, 

This  is  a  thing  sublime; 

Whereto  no  god  need  ever  hope  attain, 

Whose  future  lies  not  hid  in  years  of  time 

By  powers  invincibly  beyond  his  own.' 

So  spake  he,  and,  the  little  wound  forgot, 

We  wandered  on,  where  splendid  columns  rose, 

Tier  above  tier,  in  soaring  porticos 

Of  dreamlands  which  are  not; 

Where  dreaming  towers  of  dreaming  mysteries 

Pierced  the  high  dome  above  the  vaulted  blue 

With  age-long  stones  immense; 

And  from  within  there  floated  strangely  through 

Dim  music  and  proud  colours,  and  with  these 

The  lure  of  spices  and  of  frankincense. 

Then,  in  an  unpremeditated  race. 

We  sped  along  the  dromos  'neath  the  walls 

Of  that  vast  monument  of  echoing  halls. 

Decked  in  each  interspace 

With  lordly  sculpture  o'er  the  architrave. 

And  as  we  sped,  with  sinews  all  astrain 

And  glittering  feet. 

The  very  air  was  resonant  again 


THE  ISLE  203 

From  our  swift  rushing,  as  the  eddying  wave 
Swells  in  long  cadence  while  its  waters  beat. 

First  to  the  goal  Melissos  sped  amain, 

Apollo's  son,  and  lovelier  than  the  dawn; 

And    Thauma    next,   swift    as    some    graceful 

fawn ; 
And  after  them  a  train 
Of  witching  comeliness  'twere  pain  to  see, 
So  wonderful  the  flesh-tints  flushed  with  light 
And  subtly  pencilled  limbs; 
And  I  was  third,  betwixt  this  galaxy 
Of  laughter  and  gay  childhood,  flashing  white, 
And  Thauma's  self,  whose  beauty  all  else  dims. 

And  when  the  race  was  o'er  awhile  we  drew 

About  a  whispering  well  of  waters  cold, 

Begirt  with  iris  and  marsh-marigold. 

Where  song-birds  darted  through 

And  glorious  green  and  purple  dragon-flies. 

Here  Thauma  sat  beside  the  water's  edge. 

One  foot  within  the  stream. 

While  Agape  o'erlay  the  shelving  ledge. 

Her   head   in   Thauma's   lap,   her  great   round 

eyes 
Gazing  at  me,  and  lovelier  than  a  dream. 


204  THE  MAGIC  ISLE 

These  twain  were  fairest  even  of  them  all, 
Where  all  were  fair.     My  boy's  heart  quickened 

fast, 
The  first  time  stirred  by  passion — and  the  last. 
This  only  I  recall ; — 

One  vision  and  one  love,  and  yet  the  same 
One  vision,  through  the  years  that  went  and  came, 
Still  clear  as  in  that  place. 

In  dreams  they  sit — the  one  with  wondrous  eyes. 
Who  taught  me  what  love  was,  and  she  whose 

face 
Moves  my  whole  soul  to  tears  and  never  dies. 

Yet,  even  as  we  sat  there,  once  again 

The  overpowering  effluence  chilled  my  heart, 

And  all  my  joying  knew  'tv/as  time  to  part. 

The  '  frail  hands'  gift '  was  vain 

To  fight  for  aye  the  inevitable  spell. 

So,  with  sad  sighs  that  wound  about  our  feet. 

We  turned  toward  the  shore 

And  entered  the  close  shadows  of  farewell 

And  the  tense  moments,  where  the  pulses  beat 

In  ringing  ears  the  dirge  : — No  more — no  more. 

Thus  on  I  went,  escorted  by  those  twain. 
And  as  we  stood  where  fresher  breezes  played. 


THE  ISLE  205 

Somewhat  revived  and  yet  most  sore  dismayed, 

Soul-ravished  in  my  pain, 

Ere  each  white  hand  from  out  my  holding  slips, 

I  even  dared  to  lift  my  face  and  plead 

For  one  small  parting  kiss 

From  those  demure  yet  captivating  lips. 

Ah,  they  were  cool,  refreshing,  sweet  indeed. 

And  every  memory  leads  me  back  to  this. 

Then,  ere  the  last  good-bye,  they  gave  me  gifts 

Of  gold  and  inlay,  set  with  jewels  strange. 

Where  shadows  deep  mysteriously  change 

And  coloured  wonder  shifts. 

The  gift  of  Thauma  was  a  carcanet 

Of  exquisite  design,  and  from  it  hung 

A  pendant,  that  was  set 

With  one  enormous  black  translucent  gem. 

A  boy  and  girl  about  the  bezel  clung, 

All  naked,  with  God's  beauty  clothing  them. 

Above,  betwixt  their  hands,  the  word  *  Behold  ! ' 

Below,  'And  Wonder'  'twixt  their  feet  was  writ. 

The  gift  of  Agape  companioned  it 

In  workmanship  and  gold. 

It  was  a  clasp  upon  a  sliding  belt. 

Bright  with  email,  niello,  and  inlay. 


2o6  THE  MAGIC  ISLE 

Each  side  a  child  displayed. 
Below  the  boy,  *I  Give,'  the  legend  spelt; 
'Neath  her,  *  I  Take.'     Above,  the  converse  way, 
O'er  him,  'I  Take,'  o'er  her,  'I  Give,'  inlaid. 

As  Thauma  held  the  carcanet  she  spake 

And  smiled,  as  moonbeams  on  an  autumn  sea: 

*  Farewell,  and  not  unkindly  think  of  me 

When  you  our  isle  forsake  ; 

And  such  my  gift  that  if,  deep  down,  one  gaze 

And  ask  for  vision  of  some  lovely  thing, 

'Tis  there  within  the  stone.* 

Methought — or  was  it  fancy  ? — that  her  tone 

Was  faintliest  regretful  of  the  day's 

Dim  close  and  end  of  all  our  pleasuring. 

I  took  it,  and  I  gazed,  and  asked  to  see 

The  loveliest  of  all  eternal  things, 

And  slowly  the  mysterious  shadowings, 

Storm-winding  mistily. 

Resolved  themselves  to  shape.     'Twas  Thauma's 

face 
That  looked  at  me  from  the  enchanted  deeps, 
Where  the  chained  spirit  keeps 
Its  home  within  the  magic  amulet. 
And  at  my  summoning  come  even  yet 
The  dark  eyes,  lit  with  spiritual  grace. 


THE  ISLE  207 

I  spake  no  word  of  that  which  I  had  seen 

As  Thauma  touched  the  stone  within  my  hand. 

'Hast  thou  the  spirit  that  can  understand, 

Know'st  thou  what  these  things  mean? 

Here  is  the  very  zenith  of  desire; — 

To  comprehend  what  heauty  is  indeed 

And  bend  in  lowly  reverence; 

To  venerate,  to  worship,  and  admire 

Where  nothing  ministers  to  any  need, 

But  each  itself  is  its  own  excellence. 

*  'Tis  this  the  common  flock  will  never  know, 
And  therefore  are  they  shut  without  the  door 
Of  the  high  house  of  heaven  for  evermore, 
Whither  they  cannot  go  ; 

Nor  are  they  banished  by  some  stern  decree, 
But  by  themselves,  since  they  refuse  to  see 
Aught  nobler  than  their  mind. 
Nay,  for  they  could  not  see,  e'en  though  within. 
Since  only  can  they  see  what  in  some  kind 
Brings  profit  to  themselves  or  mortal  kin. 

*  Whilst  beauty,  heaven,  and  every  spiritual  thing 
Lie  past  the  pale  of  profit  and  mere  use. 

Nor  seek,  in  ends  outside  themselves,  excuse 
For  their  fair  fashioning. 


2o8  THE  MAGIC  ISLE 

Thus,  in  our  wonderment  at  what  transcends 

The  highest  good  that  we  can  ever  gain, 

We  reach  a  higher  plane; 

Nor  vainly  would  refer  it  back  to  us — 

From  the   small  weed,   where   line  with   colour 

blends, 
To  human  form  and  things  miraculous.' 

One  little  foot  drawn  back,  she  paused  and  stood, 

One  arm,  from  neck  to  finger-tips,  all  white, 

Flung  outward,  till  it  caught  the  mellow  light 

Flashed  through  the  quivering  wood  ; 

While,  on  the  fragrant  breath  of  summer  wind, 

Her  dusky  wealth  of  hair  flowed  far  behind. 

Ah!  from  what  hour  we  see 

That  beauty  which  all  loveliness  combines, 

Never  again  for  us  the  same  sun  shines, 

And  never  will  the  wakened  wonder  flee. 

'Mine  is  the  gift  of  love,'  her  sister  said, 

'  The  gift  that  holds  as  doth  this  girdle  hold. 

Two  pieces  part  the  single  clasp  of  gold 

Where  two  are  one  instead. 

Yet  think  not  thou  canst  love  and  be  the  same — 

Love  is  the  very  fever  of  desire 

That  is  not  satisfied  ; 


THE  ISLE  209 

For  satisfaction  is  love's  fatal  shame. 
For  ever  therefore  burning  with  new  fire 
New  worth  is  given  and  new  worth  is  tried. 

*  Thus,  in  the  past,  full  many  a  voyage  failed 
That   started   'neath   blue   skies   with   favouring 

breeze, 
And  treasure  piled  in  well-wrought  argosies. 
The  port  to  which  they  sailed 
They  never  reached.     Love  prospers  as  it  gives: 
When  all  is  given  love  no  longer  lives. 
When  there  is  naught  to  take 
No  more  is  left  that  quickeneth  desire: 
They  only  who  eternal  progress  make 
Can  feed  the  flame  of  love's  consuming  fire. 

'Take  thou  my  gift ;  and  when  the  day  appears 
That  some  sweet  maiden  with  bewildering  eyes, 
Singing  on  siren's  lips  the  soul's  replies 
To  eager  waiting  ears. 

Shall  witching  draw  thy  self  s  self  out  from  thee, 
Till  thy  heart's  warden  nothing  would  withhold. 
Outpouring  day  by  day 

The  stream  love's  thirsting  never  can  assuage, 
In  that  great  hour  give  her  my  gift  of  gold, 
A  symbol  of  love's  perfect  amity.' 

o 


210  THE  MAGIC  ISLE 

With  beating  heart  and  wide,  expectant  eyes 

I  took  the  shining  belt,  and  mutely  turned 

To  her  for  whom  my  whole  existence  yearned ; 

And  swift  in  love's  emprise 

I  clasped  it  round  her  softliest  yielding  waist. 

Printing  a  kiss  upon  that  snowy  white 

The  sea-bird's  bosom  shames. 

— ['  Ah,  Thauma,  all  my  tears  and  my  delight 

And  all  my  hopes  in  thee  are  interlaced, 

While  still  i  burn  in  love-s  remorseless  flames. 

'Loved   One,  ah,  loved  through  all  the  haunting 

years. 
Sweet  Child,  immortal  maiden  ever  young, 
My  shaken  heart,  with  aching  passion  wrung, 
Strains  through  the  void  of  tears  ; 
Dear  form,  these  arms  have  never  yet  embraced. 
Dear  lips,  these  lips  have  kissed  but  once  alone. 
Dear  heart,  that  holds  my  own, 
Come  to  me  now,  come  back  across  the  waste 
Of  lost  days,  breaking  on  a  lonely  shore; 
Come  back,  my  light,  come  back  to  me  once  more.'] — 

In  gentle  voice  spake  Agape  and  said : 
*Thou  dreamest  of  the  things  that  cannot  be; 
The  children  of  immortal  destiny 
With  mortals  may  not  wed. 


THE  ISLE  211 

Thou  must  return  and  pass  to  thine  own  kin, 
And  all   these  things  that  thou   hast  seen  must 

fade 
In  golden  memories 

On  far-off  sunset  hills  thou  may'st  not  win, 
That  light  thy  path,  slow  moving  into  shade, 
Till  in  the  hollow  night  the  vision  flees.' 

The  day  was  nearly  spent,  the  little  wood 

Looked  utter  black  with  dark  imaginings, 

And  darker  gloom  lay  on  my  spirit's  wings 

As  there  all  white  she  stood — 

So  radiant,  so  beautiful,  so  pure. 

With  sorrow  shining  in  her  deep  dark  eyes. 

*  We  know  not  what  may  be ; 

In  the  great  hands  of  Zeus  all  power  lies. 
All  things  may  fall  to  him  who  can  endure 
Nobly  to  brave  life's  undiscovered  sea. 

*  Yet  must  thou  take  thy  golden  gift  again. 
And,  if  it  may  be,  think  of  me  no  more, 
Although,   sweet   boy,  my  thoughts   to   that   far 

shore 
Will  travel  o'er  the  main.' 
She  held  the  clasp  toward  me  as  she  spa^e, 
And  in  my  pain,  e'en  as  I  turned  aside, 


212  THE  MAGIC  ISLE 

I  answered  her,  and  cried : 

*Nay,  thou  must  keep  it,  else  my  heart  will  break.' 

Then  lightly  lifted  she  her  little  mouth 

And  kissed  my  brow  and  eased  my  spirit's  drouth. 

Into  the  shallow  water  by  the  strand 

I  stepped,  and  swam  to  where  my  boat  lay  fast. 

'Farewell,'   I    called,    'farewell;    the    dream    is 

passed, 
And  none  may  understand 
How  gladness  gathers  only  for  despair, 
And  love,  and  laughter,  and  all  happy  things 
End  in  sad  vanishings. 

Were  it  not  better  joy  were  never  there?  .  .  . 
Love,  I  would  choose  a  thousand  years  of  pain 
To  live  those  few  short  moments  o'er  again. 

*  Child,  I  but  crave  to  worship  at  thy  feet, 

All  wonder-thrilled,  in  dearest  reverence  ; 

My  delicate  white  flower  of  innocence, 

I  would  not  touch  thee.  Sweet. 

Yet  would  I  toil  to  make  me  fit  for  thee, 

Storing  my  mind  with  truth,  my  hands  with  skill, 

And  grow  continually 

In  ever-widening  development, 

And  with  new  thoughts  and  aims  my  being  fill, 

Lest  I  should  tire  thee  when  my  store  was  spent- 


THE  ISLE  213 

'  Thy  presence  shall  go  with  me  till  I  die ; 

How  canst  thou  not  come  with  me,  O  Most  Fair  ? 

See,  I  blow  kisses  through  the  kindly  air, 

Winged  messengers  that  fly 

With  all  myself,  my  love,  and  my  desire 

To  do  thee  service,  cost  it  what  it  may — 

Pinions  that  never  tire. 

Ah,  call  me  back  to  thee.'     I  vainly  cried. 

But  as  I  spoke  the  charmed  land  fled  away — 

Naught  save  the  rippling  waves  on  every  side. 


Down  the  dying  distance  flying, 
Where  the  lonely  past  is  crying. 

Calling  memory  to  come. 
On  still  wings  of  straightened  sorrow, 
Fleeing  from  the  silent  morrow. 

Where  all  hopes  are  dumb. 

All  the  golden  haze  of  distance. 
Past  the  present  facts'  insistence, 

And  the  weary  things  that  are ; 
All  the  universe  before  us, 
No  lost  venture  casting  o'er  us 

Gloom  from  days  afar. 

Memory  keeps  her  garden  golden, 
'Mid  blue,  secret  hills  enfolden. 
In  the  land  of  long  ago. 


214  THE  MAGIC  ISLE 

There  the  heart's  one  treasure  lieth ; 
And  the  perfume  never  dieth 
Where  love's  lilies  blow. 

In  that  garden  let  me  linger, 
Laughing  at  the  dial's  finger 

Elsewhere  madly  moving  on. 
There,  'mid  memory's  timeless  flowers. 
Drink  the  never  passing  hours 

Where  love's  days  have  gone. 

Love,  thy  rowan  lips  are  calling; 
From  thy  gentian  eyes  are  falling 

Tears  of  far-off  yesterday. 
Kiss  again  the  old,  old  kisses. 
Live  anew  the  vanished  blisses. 

Drive  to-day  away. 

ISLE  OF  FOULA 


Here  endeth  'The  Magic  Isle.' 


IN  VAIN  215 


IN   VAIN 

I  CRY,  O  Lord,  for  the  eventless  calm 
Of  dim  still  hills, 
Where  dews  diffuse  the  silence  of  their  balm 

For  earth's  loud  ills, 
Where  passion  and  the  heats  of  struggle  lie 

Hushed  to  unending  sleep. 
And  my  defeated  soul  shall  cease  to  try 
Wild  waters  running  deep. 

And  O,  fair  Lord,  across  some  mountain  pool, 

The  winds  must  play. 
Whose  delicate  soft  fingers,  dearly  cool, 

My  pains  allay  : 
Nor  shall  they  make  low  murmurs  in  the  grass 

Nor  streams  in  music  fall. 
Lest  those  remembered  moments  dare  to  pass 

I  would  no  more  recall. 

And  I  will  shut  my  eyes  till  all  things  fade ; 

Ere  some  faint  gleam 
Of  colour,  flowing  into  lustrous  shade, 

Bring  back  my  dream. 


2i6  IN  VAIN 

And  light  again  the  longing  and  desire 

For  that  which  never  came 
And  fan  the  whiteness  of  my  spirit's  fire 

To  a  tormented  flame. 

Yet  Lord,  if  such  as  this  be  heavenly  bliss, 

'Tis  not  for  me: 
Its  very  peace  would  stir  my  soul  to  miss 

The  fires  I  flee. 
Nay  naught  shall  quench  them,  till  my  lips  I  wet 

By  Lethe's  hollow  shore; 
And,  if  it  be  that  I  shall  then  forget, 

I  shall  be  I  no  more. 

CHICAGO 


DOMNULA  MEA,  ORA  PRO  ME  217 


DOMNULA    MEA,    ORA   PRO    ME 

CHILD,  whose  unsullied  beauty  seals 
The  limit  of  Time's  varying  hour, 
As  permutating  change  reveals 

A  myriad  forms,  for  once,  that  dower 
A  single  flower, 

The  wind  breathes  upward  from  the  sea 
And  laughs  and  tosses  back  your  hair, 

Blowing  your  little  garments  free. 
Outlining  you  as  'twould  declare 
How  you  are  fair, 

Limning  you  clear  against  the  sky 

In  all  your  swift  impetuous  grace. 
While  keen  salt  airs  and  sunshine  vie 

In  vain  a  rosier  bloom  to  trace 

Upon  your  face. 

Small  wonder,  as  in  strange  amaze. 

Your  charms  flash  through  the  world's  dull  brain, 
That  jealous  voices  muttering  raise 

Their  sneering  scandal  of  disdain, — 

*  That  j'^ou  are  vain.' 


2i8  DOMNULA  MEA,  ORA  PRO  ME 

I  laugh  to  hear  their  rancorous  notes, 
Consumed  with  envious  hate  of  you. 

I  laugh  nor  curse  their  craven  throats, 

I  who  have  known  you  through  and  through, 
And  known  you  true. 

True  as  yon  blue  'gainst  which  you  stand. 
White  as  the  foam  in  summer-flame, 

You  whose  mere  presence  doth  command 
My  soul  to  bend  and  hardly  claim 
To  breathe  your  name. 

Here  where  the  sea-pinks  meet  the  wave, 
You  mark  perfection's  dizzy  height. 

And  all  my  skill  must  fail  to  grave 
One  single  little  line  aright 
Of  such  delight. 

And  yet,  my  Sweet,  I  know  you  hold 

Your  beauty  sacrosanct,  divine. 
As  some  strange  mystic  cup  of  gold, 
Deep  glowing  with  the  sacred  wine 

Within  the  shrine. 

All  trembling  borne  with  humble  feet 
By  reverent  fingers,  head  bowed  low, 


DOMNULA  MEA,  ORA  PRO  ME  219 

And  awed  heart  fearful  of  its  beat 
As  through  the  inmost  veil  they  go, 
Exceeding  slow. 

Youth's  graces  fall  from  God's  own  hand, 
The  imprint  His,  not  ours,  they  bear; 

How  could  we  fail  to  understand, 
Or  purblind  pride  presume  to  dare 
To  claim  a  share? — 

The  very  form  of  God's  own  thought, 
A  jewel  quick  with  heavenly  light, 

By  fierce  throes  intimately  wrought 
Of  Him  who  shaped  Day's  infinite 
From  out  the  Night! 

O  little  Heart!  is  this  not  so? 

O  heart  of  love  !  ordained  to  be 
A  ministrant  through  life  to  go 

In  childhood's  sweet  humility, 

For  you,  for  me. 

And,  as  some  acolyte  or  priest. 

Lift  high  hope's  emblem  from  the  dust; 

We  worship  at  a  common  feast, 
Only  what  falls  to  you  is  just 
A  sterner  trust. 


220  DOMNULA  MEA,  ORA  PRO  ME 

The  beauty  your  child-spirit  tends, 

From  prouder  spirits  set  apart, 
Is  what  God's  hallowed  beauty  sends 

That  shall  some  dream  of  It  impart 

To  man's  dark  heart. 

Ah  stay  and  watch  the  fitful  breeze 

O'ersweep  the  sward  with  streaks  of  grey, 

The  rolling  sky,  the  purple  seas, 
You,  the  heart's  core  of  all  the  day, 
Stay  yet,  O  stay ! 

For  I  whose  spirit  clings  to  thee 
Am  lifted  from  this  lower  plane ; 

And  narrow  though  my  vision  be. 

Which  heavenly  beauty  scarce  may  gain, 
'Tis  not  in  vain. 

And  when,  as  silver  night  grows  late. 

You  kneel  white-robed  with  soft  bare  feet, 

Those  little  feet  immaculate, 

You  in  my  stead  my  boon  entreat, 
Pray  for  me,  Sweet. 

EDINBURGH 


THE  CHILD  POET  221 


THE   CHILD   POET 

T  SEE  him  yet,  and  clear  the  vision  grows — 
-■-     The  slender  boy  with  darkly  waving  hair. 
The  fire  dies  down,  but  still  he  lingers  there, 
And  the  voice  haunts  and  the  rich  measure  flows. 

But  he  is  fled,  the  pages  idly  close; 
And  youth  will  flee  and  all  his  winsome  air. 
The  unconscious  grace  of  every  restless  pose. 
The  boyish  voice,  the  lips  unkissed  and  rare. 

Yet,  Alan,  in  my  dreams  come  back  to  me 
And  read  mc  slow  thy  soft  recurring  rime. 
Yea,  though  mine  eyes  shall  know  thy  spell  no 
more. 

Yet  will  no  gift  of  Heaven  fairer  be. 
When  in  the  timeless  we  encircle  time, 
Than  the  dear  past,  unaltered,  to  restore. 

WINCHESTER 


222  EILEEN 


EILEEN 

THE  sunshine  flickers  through  the  trees 
In  quaint  designs  and  harmonies, 
Bedecked  with  radiance  golden. 
The  flowers  nod  slowly  in  the  heat, 
Their  colours  change  with  rhythmic  beat, 
As  fluttering  breezes,  perfumed  sweet, 
Play  round  their  forms  unfolden. 

I  watch,  as  in  my  bower  I  lie. 
Close  shielded  from  the  curious  eye, 

A  pale  child,  blossoms  bearing: 
And,  half  asleep  and  half  awake, 
I  see  the  dancing  harebells  shake, 
As  Eileen  lightly  trips  to  make 

A  garland  for  my  wearing. 

And  up  and  down  the  path  she  goes. 
While  far  behind  her  dark  hair  flows, 

Her  beauty's  paleness  framing, 
From  bluest  ocean-deeps  her  eyes 
Look  wonderment's  demure  surprise, 
Where  nature's  wealth  of  summer  lies 

In  countless  glories  flaming. 


EILEEN  223 

So  wonder,  still  increasing,  grows, 

And,  wondering  o'er  the  haunts  she  knows. 

She  longs  for  prospects  greater: 
Perchance  the  high-walled  barriers  hide 
New  sights  upon  the  other  side, 
Where  unknown  splendours  latent  bide 

That  she  shall  gather  later. 

But  twelve  years  raised  on  tiptoe-height 
Can  ne'er  attain  the  wished-for  sight. 

Nor  have  they  strength  for  scaling. 
The  flowers  lie  fallen  on  the  bed. 
And  little  hands  would  strive  instead 
To  raise  aloft  that  dark-framed  head. 

Still  striving  and  still  failing, 

And,  unlike  childhood,  yield  to  fate, 
Nor  fight  against  the  obdurate. 

But  lift  again  their  burden, 
And  roses  white  weave  here  and  there 
With  blooms  of  whiter  lilies  rare; — 
No  childish  garland,  deathly  fair. 

For  granted  wish  a  guerdon. 

And,  as  she  bears  the  gift  to  me. 
She  playful  asks  on  bended  knee; — 
'  A  boon  I  crave,  dear  Master ; 


224  EILEEN 

Show  me  what  past  the  garden  lies, 
Where  blue  the  walls  of  heaven  arise, 
And  all  my  day-dream's  paradise 
Spreads  vastly  and  yet  vaster.' 

But,  knowing  all,  I  crave  delay 

And  bid  her  dream-winged  fancies  stray 

Through  changing  seas  of  story. 
Then,  nestling  closely  at  my  side. 
The  dark  blue  eyes  are  opened  wide 
And  seem  within  their  deeps  to  hide 

A  realm  of  fairy-glory. 

So  I  depict,  as  comes  to  me. 

What  in  those  tideless  gulfs  I  see, — 

Strange  mermaids  and  wild  fancies: 
And,  pleased  my  curious  lay  to  hear. 
She  lends  an  eager  listening  ear, 
Forgetting  all  things  lately  dear. 

To  hark  to  my  romances. 

The  story  told,  there  lingers  yet. 
Half-tinged  with  awe,  a  vain  regret 

For  fairyland  long  vanished  : 
Gazing  afar  down  future  years. 
In  fields  of  joy  or  glades  of  tears, 
No  fairy  pageantry  appears 

That  this  dull  age  has  banished. 


EILEEN  225 

— [Yet,  children,  if  ye  could  but  see, 
Life's  fairy  denizens  are  ye, 

Love's  mystery  enhancing; 
And  little  maidens  with  soft  eyes 
And  shy  sweet  ways  of  winning  guise 
Thrill  with  more  magic  ecstasies 

Than  elfin  lures  entrancing.] — 

The  months,  the  seasons  come  and  go, 
For  me  so  fast,  for  her  so  slow : 

I  too  such  days  remember, 
When  through  life's  unsuspecting  Spring 
A  joy  illumined  everything, 
Till  came  the  rude  awakening, 

And  lo!  it  was  December. 

The  seasons  find  her  growing  tall; 
Again  she  seeks  the  garden  wall 

In  joyous  expectation ; 
But,  for  the  golden  vision  sought. 
Beneath  the  slope, — all  squalour-fraught, — 
A  scene,  where  vice  and  ill  have  wrought 

A  haunt  of  desolation. 

I  found  her  there,  her  childhood  fled, 
Lost  in  the  tears  those  blue  eyes  shed  : 
*  Eileen,  the  charm  is  broken.' 
p 


226  EILEEN 

Softly  I  stepped  and  stood  beside; 
She  understood;  the  tears  were  dried; 
The  great  world  mocked  us  stretching  wide; 
She  smiled; — no  word  was  spoken. 

KILLARNEY 


THE  MART  227 


THE   MART 

TN  the  gay-coloured  Eastern  mart 
-■-     Resplendent  wares  are  sold — 
Rich  spices,  strange  fantastic  art, 

And  broideries  manifold. 
I  stood  with  curious  gaze  apart 

And  watched  men  bid  their  gold. 

Camels  with  bales  of  merchandise 

Thronged  in  from  far  and  nigh. 
And  slaves  with  eager,  wistful  eyes 

Watched  who  themselves  would  buy; 
Until  they  placed,  in  fairy  guise, 

A  little  maid  on  high. 

Such  rose-flushed  limbs  of  joyous  hue, 

Mute,  serious  lips  and  grave, 
Whose  pleading  stirs  me  through  and  through 

To  pay  the  price  they  crave ! 
I  bought  the  child — what  could  I  do  ? — 

And  now  I  am  her  slave ! 

EDINBURGH 


ATALANTA 

I.  THE  STATUE 
II.  BEFORE 

III.  WAITING 

IV.  THE  RACE 
V.  THE  GOAL 


THE  STATUE  231 


ATALANTA 


THE  STATUE 

SHE  stoops  to  touch  the  apple  with  her  hand, 
And  that  keen  flight  which  cleft  the  wind  is 

stayed ; 
While  eddying  gusts  her  garment's  hem  uplift, 
Through  which  the  fleeting  breezes  fluttering 
played ; 
Yet  still  in  sinuous  lines  the  folds  outstand. 

Blown  back  about  her  shoulders  white  and 
swift. 

As  in  the  days  of  Hellas,  vain  recalled. 
She  lives,  she  moves  in  marble  yet  again; 

Once  more  her  restless  beauty  rends  the  heart 
And  fills  us  with  unutterable  pain.  .  .  . 
Ah,  speak  to  us,  who,  by  that  form  enthralled. 
Await  the  music  of  thy  lips  that  part. 


232  ATALANTA 


II 
BEFORE 


C  TILL  is  the  night  and  clear  ;  I  turn  my  gaze 
Far  north  to  where  the  Lesser  Bear  appears. 
Ah,  mother  of  my  unremembered  years, 
Who    suckled    me    through    those    momentous 

days. 
An  untamed  wildling,  filled  with  woodland  ways! 


To-morrow,  yea,  to-morrow  it  will  come — 
The  end  of  all  my  joyaunce  and  delight; 
Sure  as  the  morn  destroys  the  silver  night; 
And  as  I  turn  to  pray  my  lips  seem  dumb, 
My  strained   hands  falter,  and  my  heart   grows 
numb. 

Oh,  dark  on  every  side  the  way  ahead ! 

For  unknown  ruin  and  most  woeful  things, 
Strange,  gloomy  fates  and  deadly  issuings, 
Await  me,  so  the  Pythian  priestess  said, 
If  ever  man  should  win  me  to  his  bed. 


BEFORE  233 

Or  otherwise  there  runs  my  sire's  decree: 
That,  save  competing  in  the  fleeting  race, 
Myself  he  should  with  swifter  steps  outpace, 

And  win  a  bride  and  scape  his  penalty. 

Death's  doom  is  his  who  fain  would  wed  with 
me. 

Methought  the  black  abyss  of  doleful  death 

Would    bid    men   pause    before    such    fate    be 

spun ; 
And  yet  the  grievous  course  hath  twice  been 
run. 
While  wanton  folly  stole  away  their  breath. 
And  prayer  is  vain  and  no  one  answereth. 

E'en  though  the  dreaded  fates  might  not  prevail, 
And  all  were  well,  to  wed  I  have  no  mind. 
My  passion  drifteth  down  the  hungry  wind. 
As  oarless  boats  before  the  rising  gale, 
Hither  and  thither  tossed  without  avail. 

Sweet  sister,  Artemis,  oh,  hear  my  plaint: 
All  unrestrained  I  rule  my  life  to-day, 
Why  should  another  ever  say  me  nay? 
Why  should  my  maiden  pleasures  fade  and  faint 
In  the  drear  darkness  of  a  man's  restraint? 


234  ATALANTA 

Why  may  men  only  do  their  deeds  of  might? 
I  too  would  hunt  and  meet  the  boar  at  bay, 
Live  my  own  life  and  live  it  my  own  way ; 
Nor  in  the  house  endure  a  prisoner's  plight 
And  wait  a  man's  home-coming  through  the  night. 

Let  others  care  for  children,  I  for  fame 

And  this  glad  life  will  live,  and  then  will  die 
When  I  have  drained  the  cup  of  pleasure  dry. 
To  suffer  pangs  unwished  were  only  blame. 
And  slave  to  man  or  child  a  needless  shame. 

These  foolish  youths — ah,  weak  and  foolish  all; 
For  what  are  men  to  me?  my  heart  is  clear! 
Love !     Nay,  I  know  not  love.     Love  comes  not 
here! 
But  pity  fills  my  breast  as  I  recall 
The  two  whose  vain  presumption  brought  their 
fall. 

All  through   that  night  I  wept — but  none  must 
know — 

When  Dion  fell.     For  days  my  eyes  were  dim. 

Yea,  he  was  fair  to  see  and  swift  of  limb. 
And  might  have  won,  for  all  that  I  may  show ; 
But  fear  took  hold  on  him  and  laid  him  low. 


BEFORE  235 

How  strange  we  are !     We  cannot  rule  our  will ; 

We  say  we  will  not  love — and  then  we  yield. 

Nay,  even  I,  o'erlooking  memory's  field, 
Know  something  of  the  wonder  and  the  thrill, 
Remembering  one  who  haunts  my  vision  still! 

So  strong  was  he  and  as  a  tower  his  height. 
And  swifter  than  the  wind  from  out  the  north; 
But  on  his  long  last  journey  fared  he  forth 
When  for  my  sake  he  interposed  his  might 
And  drave  Plexippos  to  the  realms  of  night. 

If,  Meleager,  thou  hadst  lived,  I  ween 

Thou  mightest   have   subdued  me.     Who   can 
tell? 

For  with  a  sister's  love  I  loved  thee  well. 
But  dim,  regretful  memories  float  between  ; 
And  thou  art  gone  as  things  that  have  not  been. 

To-morrow,  yea,  to-morrow  it  must  be. 

What   have   I   done   that  I  should   lose   these 

things, 
And   this   dear  life,  so  cherished,  should   take 
wings, 
And  bring  the  same  sad  bitterness  to  me 
That  other  women  taste  in  misery? 


236  ATALANTA 

For  thou,  Meilanion,  well  I  know  thy  face ; 
Hast  thou  not  hunted  often  at  my  side, 
And  know  I  not  thy  flashing  feet  and  pride  ? 
Fatigue  thou  knewest  not,  nor  slackened  pace 
As  step  for  step  we  sped  upon  the  chase. 

Yet  may  the  dread  of  death  unnerve  thy  soul, 
And  thou  mayest  fail  as  others  failed  before, 
That  I  may  live  the  glad  free  life  once  more.  .  .  . 
Ah,  what  wild  wish  is  this,  beyond  control. 
That  through  another's  death  would  gain  the  goal  ? 

The  grey  dawn  breaks,  Meilanion,  hast  thou  slept. 
Or  watched  the  night  and  scanned  the  changing 

skies, 
Or  prayed  thy  best  and  offered  sacrifice  ? 

Oh,  what  avail  the  vigil  I  have  kept? 

Oh,  what  avail  the  tears  that  I  have  wept  ? 

To-morrow,  yea,  to-morrow — nay,  to-day 
The  cup  of  joy  is  spilt,  the  die  is  cast, 
The  sands  that  mark  my  maiden  hours  fleet  fast. 
Nay,  let  me  cast  my  weaker  self  away 
And  once  more  triumph  in  my  great  essay. 


WAITING  237 


III 

WAITING 

'T'HE  sand  lies  yellow  and  smooth  and  gleaming, 
Clear  is  the  light  on  the  farthest  goal ; 

Here  is  the  end  of  all  the  dreaming — 
The  strenuous  test  for  body  and  soul, 
And  fate  that  eludeth  a  man's  control. 

Every  eye  'mid  those  countless  faces 

Turns  where  the  two  stand  side  by  side ; 

Never  a  sound  through  those  spreading  spaces 
Filled  with  that  surging  human  tide  : 
Atalanta  or  death  for  bride. 

Silence  enwraps  them  about,  and  ever 
The  sad,  tense  faces  are  turned  to  gaze. 

How  will  the  Gods  the  problem  sever, 
Who  can  determine  the  hidden  ways. 
Proffer  the  guerdon,  or  pay  the  praise  ? 


238  ATALANTA 

Zeus,  we  adjure  thee,  the  contest  guiding, 
Balance  the  scales  to  an  issue  fair. 

See  how  we  tender  for  thy  deciding. 

All  of  our  hopes  and  our  fears  laid  bare. 
Burning  thee  spices  and  offerings  rare  ! 


THE  RACE  239 


IV 

THE  RACE 

A  H,  beauteous  maiden,  tall  and  straight, 

With  wealth  of  flowing  hair, 
And  melting  eyes  and  queenly  gait. 
Yet  with  a  gaze  disconsolate 
That  mocks  thy  regal  air. 

And  thou,  Meilanion,  sprung  from  kings, 

Thy  blanched  lips  still  belie 
The  vigour  in  thy  step  that  swings 
So  proudly,  while  the  blue  air  rings 

With  plaudits  to  the  sky. 

What  have  thy  heart's  prayers  gained  for  thee 

At  Aphrodite's  shrine? 
Love  such  as  thine  should  surely  be 
Rewarded  for  its  constancy 

By  wonder-gifts  divine. 


240  ATALANTA 

What  holdeth  he  within  his  hand, 

As  from  their  loins  they  fling 
Their  raiment  on  the  yellow  sand, 
When  at  the  aphesis  they  stand 

And  wait  the  signalling? 

Ah,  mortal  men,  such  sight  to  view 

Your  wild  hopes  never  dared, 
The  light  of  godhead  shining  through 
Such  glorious  limbs  of  radiant  hue 

Before  your  vision  bared! 

And  Death,  how  couldst  thou  scheme  to  use 

Thy  sword  to  mark  defeat? 
For  one  must  win  and  one  must  lose; 
The  Gods  themselves  would  fail  to  choose 

Where  two  such  forms  compete. 

The  signal  falls,  and  forth  they  leap. 

Full  speed  beyond  the  bound. 
And  side  by  side  awhile  they  keep. 
As  like  the  rushing  wind  they  sweep 

Unfettered  o'er  the  ground. 

The  midmost  stele  draweth  near, 
Meilanion  surely  gains ! 


THE  RACE  241 

When,  mazed  by  folly,  hope,  or  fear. 
He  turns  to  see  his  fleet  compeer, 
Who  close  behind  him  strains. 

And  as  he  turns  he  loses  speed; 

She  flashes  by  him  fast; 
He  gains — falls  back — then  gains  indeed, 
Yet  half  a  pace  she  still  doth  lead. 

The  midway  post  is  past. 

So  'neath  her  flying  feet  he  flings 

The  Goddess'  gleaming  gift — 
The  golden  fruit  whose  glamour  stings. 
To  stay  her  light  foot's  hastenings. 

Stooping,  the  prize  to  lift. 

Albeit  she  bends  with  nimble  grace. 

Scarce  pausing  as  she  flies  ; 
Yet  'tis  enough,  he  wins  apace, 
And,  leading  in  the  fateful  race, 

Hope  kindles  in  his  eyes. 

But  she,  to  sterner  struggle  nerved. 

Again  darts  on  before. 
And  from  the  path  had  hardly  swerved, 
Whenso  the  second  apple  curved 

About  her  course  once  more. 

Q. 


242  ATALANTA 

She  leads — the  turning-post  is  past — 
She  leads.     Men's  hearts  scarce  beat 

As  'fore  her  eyes  the  third  is  cast; 

Yet,  hardly  checked,  she  holds  it  fast 
And  speeds  with  equal  feet. 

And  foot  to  foot,  with  level  stride, 

They  near  the  final  goal. 
Cold  hands  are  clenched  on  every  side; 
'Neath  piteous  eyelids,  watching  wide, 

Tears  fall  beyond  control. 

*  Meilanion,  'tis  thy  life  at  stake. 

Thy  life,  thy  love,  thy  fame ; 

Against  herself,  yet  for  her  sake. 

One  last  stupendous  effort  make 

To  seize  the  victor's  name ! ' 

The  flaming  heats  of  white  despair 

Consume  his  yearning  soul; 
Daring  what  agony  can  dare, 
He  gains — with  strivings  past  compare- 
A  handsbreadth  at  the  goal, 

And  falls,  and  lies  upon  the  sands 
Unconscious,  white,  and  chill; 


THE  RACE  243 

While  Atalanta  near  him  stands 
With  vacant  gaze  and  listless  hands, 
Awe-stricken,  dazed,  and  still. 

Then  slowly  leaning  o'er  his  face 

She  chafes  each  unstrung  limb, 
And  'neath  the  open  winds  of  space 
In  that  unnatural,  still  place 

Awakes  her  grief  for  him. 

And  mournful  faces  strained  and  pale 

Hear  her  sad  threnody : 
'  Surely  o'er  death  thou  shalt  prevail, 
The  sword  of  Thanatos  must  fail 

To  wrest  my  love  from  me.' 

He  hears,  and  opens  wide  his  eyes 

To  see  her  bending  there — 
Beauty  enhanced  by  love's  own  guise.  .  .  . 
A  myriad  voices  heavenward  rise 

And  rend  the  enraptured  air. 


244  ATALANTA 


THE   GOAL 

V7EA,  all  is  over  now,  the  hour  has  come 

Of  long  foreboding  throes  of  dread, 
Whose  bitter  fears  would  leave  my  senses  dumb 

In  the  full  years  now  fled ; 
Yet  the  new  world  of  love,  in  depth  and  height 
And  plenitude  of  passion  infinite, 

Leaves  all  else  small  and  dead. 

How  might  it  be  that  in  the  past  I  deemed 

Love's  garden  was  a  place  apart, 
Nor  of  the  crown  of  motherhood  e'er  dreamed, 

With  children  at  my  heart — 
A  gladness  woven  with  a  warp  of  tears — 
Ours,  yet  not  ours,  and  in  the  destined  years 

Past  love's  controlling  art? 

Ah,  hold  me  in  thine  arms,  and  do  not  fear 

To  press  me  closer  to  thy  side ! 
It  is  thy  very  strength  I  hold  so  dear. 

Love's  wild  oncoming  tide 


THE  GOAL  245 

May  roll  his  billows  and  engulf  me  quite, 
And  hurl  me  wheresoe'er  'tis  his  delight, 
Till  he  be  satisfied. 


Nay,  kiss  me  once  again,  and  place  thine  hands 

About  my  head  and  hold  it  fast, 
And  all  the  dreams  of  other  days  and  lands 

And  gracious  things  now  past 
May  fade  in  dim  oblivion's  hollow  caves, 
Where  the  sad  booming  of  her  roaring  waves 

Drowneth  all  sounds  at  last. 

Yea,  whisper  words  of  love  within  mine  ear, 
Soft,  murmuring  sighs  of  tender  things, 

And  close  mine  eyes  with  kisses ;  let  me  hear 
Those  dear  imaginings. 

As  music  thrilling  through  my  languorous  veins, 

Tired    with    fierce    life    and    over-wrought   with 
pains 
Of  many  wayfarings. 

My  Love,  this  is  the  very  peace  of  pain. 

The  very  pain  of  bliss  most  dire ; 
The  tears  of  joy  are  hot  like  scalding  rain; 

While  floods  of  white  desire 


246  ATALANTA 

Pour  through  my  blood  white-glowing,  with  more 

heat 
Than  the   sun's   midmost   self,  where   ceaseless 

beat 
The  eternal  flames  of  fire. 

Meilanion,  if  the  gods  in  heaven  should  see, 

Will  they  be  jealous  of  our  bliss  ? 
In  heaven's  cool  of  calm  there  cannot  be 

A  love  intense  as  this. 
Yet  though  the  flames  of  Phlegethon  devour, 
I  would  not  lose  thy  love  one  little  hour 

Or  sacrifice  one  kiss. 

Yea,  if  another  should  presume  to  take 

Thyself,  and  leave  me  desolate, 
Would  not  the  fury  of  my  passion  break 

In  red,  remorseless  hate  ? 
See  how  my  hands,  my  swift  avenging  feet, 
My  huntress-shafts,  unerringly  would  fleet 

The  doom  to  consummate! 

Lo !  I  am  spent  with  love,  yet  once  anew 

Kiss  me  with  lip  on  lip  aflame — 
Kiss  with  the  pulse  of  passion  throbbing  through 

The  music  of  thy  name ; 


THE  GOAL  247 

And  fast  about  thee  let  me  wind  my  hair, 
So  wondrous  thewed  and  marvellously  fair, 
Thy  god-transcending  frame ! 

Ah,  let  me  drown  my  very  soul  in  thine, 

Sinking  inimitably  deep, 
And  yield  myself,  who  am  no  longer  mine. 

Where  love's  loud  pinions  sweep; 
Yet,  hush  their  stir,  and  hold  me  very  near, 
And  listen  till  about  our  love  we  hear 

The  drowsy  wings  of  sleep. 

ISLE  OF  FOULA 
Here  endeth  'Atalanta.' 


248  CHILDREN  OF  FANCY 


CHILDREN    OF   FANCY 

HE  that  mates  with  Fancy  rears 
Children  for  the  unknown  years,- 
Born  in  joy  or  born  in  tears. 

Children  of  the  morning  ray, 
Children  of  the  waning  day, 
What  will  follow  ;  who  can  say  ? 

Fancy  sees  her  brood  depart, 
Watches  through  the  tears  that  start. 
Wonders  with  an  aching  heart. 

Fate  may  guard  them  ill  or  well. 
Fame  no  parent  can  compel. 
Painter  know  or  bard  foretell. 

So  when  here  we  leave  with  thee 
These  our  children,  may  they  be 
Judged  by  thee  most  tenderly. 


LONDON 


AT    ANCHOR 

BY 
MARION  C.  STOUGHTON  HOLBORN 


AT  ANCHOR  251 

AT  ANCHOR 

I  HAVE  a  little  boat  that  listless  lies 
At  anchor  in  the  green  lap-lapping  sea; 
The  torn  white  wind-cloud  streaks  the  skies, 
The  wind  is  singing  in  the  shrouds,  and  we 
Could    sail — could    sail — if   you   would   come 

with  me, — 
If  you  would  come  with  me. 

Let  the  deep  draw  you  as  of  old,  my  sweet. 
Far  out  great  billows  roll,  the  sea-bird  cries — 

The  loose-lashed  tiller  jerks  the  sheet 

That  idly  swings  with  every  fall  and  rise, 
And  here  my  little  boat  at  anchor  lies, — 
My  boat  at  anchor  lies. 

Inland  I  hear  the  thrushes'  amorous  note 

And  feel  the  throb  of  Spring's  awakening  year. 

My  song  leaps  sobbing  to  my  throat ; 

The  birds  are  nesting  in  the  branches,  dear, 
I  look  for  you  but  you  are  never  here, — 
But  you  are  never  here. 

For  now  the  place  is  vacant  at  my  side 

Where  once  your  pillowed  head  in  slumber  lay. 

The  dark  night  holds  my  tired  eyes  wide 
And  wearily  I  stretch  myself  and  say, — 
He  will  come  back  some  day— some  day, — 
He  will  come  back  some  day. 

MARION  C.   STOUGHTON  HOLBORN 


'Ah,  Love  I  could  you  and  I  with  Him  conspire 
To  grasp  this  sorry  Scheme  of  Things  entire, 
Would  not  we  shatter  it  to  bits — and  then 
Remould  it  nearer  to  the  Heart's  Desire  1  ' 

FITZGERALD'S  OMAR 


INDEX   OF   TITLES   AND   FIRST   LINES 


Page 

After  (Love's  Vision)     .          .          .          .          .          .          .167 

Ah,  beauteous  maiden,  tall  and  straight  . 

239 

All  in  a  fairyland  of  silvern  haze    . 

I 

Annihilation         ..... 

.         123 

Atalanta     ...... 

229 

At  Anchor  ...... 

•         249 

Auld  Reekie  (From  the  Four  Airts) 

87 

Autumn  (Love's  Vision) 

162 

Bathing  Pool,  The         .... 

175 

Beauty         ...... 

III 

Before  (Atalanta)           .... 

232 

Beyond  the  seas,  beyond  the  changing  skies 

18S 

Bitter-Sweet 

125 

Butades       ...... 

II 

Childhood    ...... 

47 

Child  Poet,  The 

221 

Children  of  Fancy          .... 

248 

Child,  whose  unsullied  beauty  seals 

217 

Christine     ....... 

118 

Come  back  to  me,  wee  maiden  of  my  dreams 

47 

Dancing-Class,  The        ..... 

170 

Dawn,  The            ...... 

58 

Demure  and  silent  fairy-queen,  Christine 

118 

Desire          ....... 

122 

Domnula  Mea,  Ora  Pro  Me    . 

217 

Doom          ....... 

124 

Down  the  dying  distance  fliying 

213 

Dying  Hope          ...... 

179 

Edinburgh  :  Lines  from  Far  North  (From  the  Four  Airts)  . 

77 

Eileen          ......... 

222 

Enchantress,  The          ..... 

. 

. 

122 

254 


CHILDREN  OF  FANCY 


Far  far  aloft,  dark  in  the  dusky  sky 
Firth  of  Forth,  The  (From  the  Four  Airts) 
For  me  the  great  slow  years  are  more  than  years 
From  the  Four  Airts     ..... 

Goal,  The  (Atalanta) 

Guelder  Roses,  The       ..... 

Hark,  the  far-off  murmur  of  pursuing  !   . 

He  leans  alert  o'er  the  chariot-rail  and  looks  toward  the  goal 

Here  in  the  dread  fulfilment  of  our  fears 

He  that  mates  with  Fancy  rears      . 

He  would  come  back,  if  I  should  call, 

Hour  of  Meeting,  The   . 

I  cry,  O  Lord,  for  the  eventless  calm 

I  have  a  little  boat  that  listless  lies. 

Individuality 

In  sinuous  lines  they  deftly  trace 

In  the  gay-coloured  Eastern  mart 

In  Vain        .... 

Irremeabile  Tempus 

Irresolution 

I  see  him  yet,  and  clear  the  vision  grows 

Is  he  a  god,  with  his  thoughts  afiame 

Is  it  too  much  I  ask 

Isle  of  Foula,  The  [Thule]       . 

Isle,  The  (The  Magic  Isle)      . 

Isolt  

Is  she  not  fair  beyond  the  poet's  dreaming 
It  was  a  place  most  glad  to  wander  through 

July,  with  lavish  hand  and  sumptuous  pride 

Light  the  lilt  of  liquid  laughter 

Little  Princess,  The 

Loch  Boisdale 

Love's  Last  Endeavour 

Love's  Sacrament 


Page 

41 

84 

159 

75 

244 
114 

i8 
56 

37 

248 

67 

69 

215 

251 

54 

170 

227 

215 

39 

67 

221 

102 

69 

49 

197 

174 

87 

197 

175 

195 
72 
41 
18 

9 


INDEX  OF  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 

Love's  Vision        ..... 
Lusitaniae  Naufragium 

Magic  Isle,  The 

Maidens  mine,  now  haste  ye,  haste  ye  hither 

Mart,  The 

MaussoUeion-Charioteer,  The 

Menalkas    ...... 

Menalkas,  hast  thou  come  ?     Sit  here  with  me 
'Mid  many  thoughts,  the  Mind  once  shadowed  forth 
Mine  eyes  still  see  her  portrait,  as  of  old 

Narkissos    ....... 

'Neath  sunny  skies  I  glided  on         .  .  . 

No  '  love  '  had  I,  as  those  my  friends,  the  youths 
No  rest,  no  pause,  no  stay      .... 

North  turns  the  tide  and  meets  the  wind  and  breaks 
North  Wind,  The  (From  the  Four  Airts)  . 
Not  that  first  Isolt,  who  from  Ireland  came 

0  child,  with  dreamland  glory  in  thy  hair 

O  Love  1    0  Love  !   we  turn  our  eyes  to  thee    . 

Outward  Bound   . 

Parting 

Philistos  and  Neaira 

Race,  The  (Atalanta) 

Sea-Queen,  The    . 

She  came  to  me  with  garlands  in  her  hand 

She  lies  within  the  chapel  fair 

She  stoops  to  touch  the  apple  with  her  hand 

She  was  so  fair,  and  oh,  her  eyes  were  blue 

Sixteen         ...... 

So  back  unto  my  father's  halls  I  turned  . 
Soft  as  the  grey  of  twilight  o'er  the  sea   . 
So,  less  than  mortal  man — for  man  at  least 
Some  day  when  all  the  work  is  done,  I  shall  hie  me  down 
to  the  shore  ....... 


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256 


CHILDREN  OF  FANCY 


Page 

Song,  The 127 

Spring  (Love's  Vision)  .......  159 

Statue,  The  (Atalanta) 231 

Still  is  the  night  and  clear  ;    I  turn  my  gaze     .          .          •  232 

Surrender    .........  90 

The  day  dies  down  into  deepening  gloom           ...  61 

The  feast  draws  near  its  ending       .....  51 

The  light  breaks  through  the  latticed  pane        ...  58 

The  North  Wind  is  calling,  there  is  white  upon  the  hills     .  81 

There  in  the  garden  in  the  early  grey       ....  165 

There  on  the  bitter  ground,  white  cold  he  lay  .          .          .  124 

The  sand  lies  yellow  and  smooth  and  gleaming          .          .  237 

The  soaring  towers  have  come  to  grief     ....  54 

The  sunshine  flickers  through  the  trees    ....  222 

Through  the  close  stems  I  made  my  arduous  way     .          .  4 

'Tis  cold  within  the  shrine,  the  silver  lamp        ...  90 

To-morrow           ........  45 

Turn  Southward  o'er  the  hills  ;   take  hands  with  me          .  77 
Twelve  Months,  In  (Love's  Vision)            .          .          .          .165 

Vain,  In 216 

Visions        .........  i 

Waiting  (Atalanta) 237 

Wandering,  The  (The  Magic  Isle) 185 

War 36 

What  would  ye  here  ?     What  have  ye  come  to  say  .          .  11 

When  Terror  folds  his  wings  and  Fear  is  ended          .          .  iii 

Who  is  it  loves  the  sea 49 

Who  will  come  a-sailing  on  the  dark  blue  Forth        .          .  84 

With  silent  lips,  and  full  hearts,  passion-stirred         .          .  43 

Yea,  all  is  over  now,  the  hour  has  come            .          .          .  244 
Yestreen  I  stood  and  gazed  into  night's  deeps  .          .          .167 

Youth's  Tragedy  ........  92 

<t'iX6T>'  tC>v  KpCKraroiv  to.  (piKrara           .....  5^ 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


Date  Due 


APK  2,1 


'mr 


APRl4(iJ67a 


Library  Bureau  Cat.  No.  1137 


UC SOUTHERN! 


AA    000  595  821    0 


iiiiii'  ■'     ' 


•i'::i:! 


Ill 


